


Final Release

by Dragoncurl



Series: Life of the Outsider [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Biting, Blindfolds, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Bondage, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Dishonored: Death of the Outsider, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Rough Sex, do characters who only get a mention count?, its not like daud or delilah are actually showing up, let me know of tags you think might be necessary as we get further in, probably more to be added - Freeform, theyre both dead, though a very minor one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-10 18:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoncurl/pseuds/Dragoncurl
Summary: What happens to a God that is rendered human?Picks up immediately after the Steam achievement for which this whole thing is named (https://dishonored.fandom.com/wiki/Final_Release). Chapters that are NSFW are marked as such in the summary at the start.





	1. Farewell to the Leviathans

As stone turns to flesh and his heart fills with blood that ran out more than four thousand years ago, the Outsider feels a lot of things.

His whole body aches as each individual piece of it is returned to living flesh. Pinpricks burst across every inch of his skin. His muscles cramp and throb with the sudden rush of blood through them. His very bones, so long rendered as dry as the otherworldly obsidian around him,  _ scream _ in protest against the heat bubbling through his frame, flushing under his skin as its deathly pallor is quickly chased away. His eyes feel like glass, like solid black marbles in his skull until he squeezes them shut around the unbearable burn scorching across each coal-black orb.

He feels his own clothes, clothes he's woven for himself out of the very fabric of the Void, solidify around him and become nothing but plain fabric and leather and metal. The fabric is soft, yet he feels every tiny scrape of it against his awakening sense of touch, every bump and fold and suture seam. He feels the pressure of hands around him. One is flesh, strong, running hot enough for it to seep through her glove and his coat alike. The other is something else, another thing he's woven out of the Void but far more recently, something both alive and dead and held together by little more than the life and will of its host, shaped into tangible energy around the shards of her paradox limb.

It's not just the heat of Billie's hand, but also the heat of breath against his ear, of simple proximity from skin to skin, the sound of an old, familiar voice rough with time and drink and smoke. It speaks to him in a language long-dead, in a tongue he hasn't heard in nearly all his four thousand years of godhood, and it speaks a name he's never even known existed despite all he could see and know across the endless expanse of the Void, because it was torn from him and erased from the world forever.

Though these days, forever turns out to be shorter than expected.

He draws a shuddering gasp and stumbles forward. Billie's hands hold him firm while his newly-flesh body reacquaints itself with its own living status, its breathing lungs, rushing blood, beating heart and roiling guts. The aches and pinpricks fade just as quickly as they began. The orbs in his skull soften into proper eyes whose color he can't remember. Green, he thinks. Pale green. He tries to open them and flinches at the stab of pain even in the low, diffuse light of the Void. He tries again, blinking, moving his head. He realizes he's been clutching onto Billie's arm and shoulder to stay upright and tries to command his limbs to obbey.

He steadies himself quickly, he thinks, given he's spent well over four thousand years cast into stone. His breaths are ragged, he's aware of it. Blood is singing in his ears.  _ Adrenaline _ , his endless knowledge provides, but he shakes his head.

He straightens himself. With his legs. That carry his actual weight, however lithe it may be. He looks at his hands, long thin fingers and pale, but less so with the flush of new blood through his palms, in his nails. One of them touches his face like a hot iron poking at his cheekbone just below his eye.

Said gaze finds Billie's boot and follows it up along her scuffed, dusty pants, her red coat, her folded mismatched arms, and finally her one-eyed face. The spark of red inside her Silver of the Eye is brighter, more chaotic than when he first jammed it into her skull, like a tiny little roaring flame instead of the gentle glow from before.

He's just barely started gathering breath to speak when Billie throws up a hand in dismissal. "Save it, kid. Let's just get you out of here."

Kid.

She called him a  _ kid _ .

How old was he when he died?

His distaste must show on his face because Billie's mouth tugs into a smirk. "Come on," she says simply.

He falls into step behind her, but his mind is still caught up on his age. His  _ human _ age, not the four thousand plus years spent as a Void God. He rubs his hands together as though expecting rings to appear around his fingers. They were silver, inlaid with heavy black stones that he only now realizes were quite similar to the ersatz obsidian under his boots.

Eighteen.

He was eighteen when he died.

They plucked him off the street at fifteen, but he lived in the temple after that, his every wish catered to by the apostles in between all the tests and trials they put him through. Almost none of it was unpleasant, right up to the point where he was robed in loose black fabric and led through a tear in reality to the place he's now leaving behind.

He feels his mouth twist with some unpleasant emotion and tries to school his expression back to neutrality. It's so much harder, now that he has a beating heart in his chest and breath in his throat.

"Why?" he finds himself asking, his words no longer echoing throughout the Void. It's just his voice, coming from his own mouth while he stares at Billie's back. "After everything you've seen, everything you know, why?"

He can't help but focus on the twisted thing he turned her arm into. It seemed so simple at the time, an easy solution when he found himself unable to produce a Mark on her hand, yet now there's a tightness in his heart when he looks at it. Regret, he knows it's regret, but everything's still both too new and too familiar and emotions are entirely too raw on his nerves.

"I took your arm. Your  _ eye _ ..."

His voice betrays the churning unease in his gut, he hates that it does, because Billie stops at the edge of the obsidian cliff and looks back at him. He turns his gaze away, feels like he's being laid bare under the scrutiny of that scorching Eye. He's dimly aware of her folding her arms again.

"You did a lot more than that. There's a reason, a  _ lot _ of reasons why Daud called you the black-eyed bastard. You realize that, right?"

Again he feels his face twist with emotion against his will and turns it away, toward the place where he'd been cold stone only minutes ago. Daud was there, or at least his spirit. The old assassin is gone. He remembers finding him one of his more interesting Marked, for a time, until the killings became just another chore for a man whose mind starts to question his life's work.

"I'm aware, yes," he says, with no small amount of distaste for the tone of voice he can't seem to get under control. There's guilt and regret and sorrow and so many other things fighting for space in his human brain, it's hard to maintain his composure. He recalls Daud's voice in his ear, the feel of his breath across his thawing skin, and clings to it like a child, suddenly afraid of it slipping out of memory.

He's roused by Billie's hand on his shoulder. He tries to look at her and just as quickly flinches away; that Eye feels like it's drilling into his very skull. He watches the water below instead.

"Listen, if there's anything the old man taught me is that it's never too late to change. You didn't have a choice in becoming the Outsider anymore than we had a choice on whether we wanted your  _ gifts _ or not, and I say that counts for s-"

"Emily did."

He says it before he can stop himself. The hand on his shoulder tenses.

"She had a choice, because her goals could be accomplished without my...  _ interference _ ."

He noticed the way she said 'gifts' earlier.

Silence hangs between them. The song of the Leviathans drifting past, far above, suffuses his being. They're saying goodbye. He wonders if he'll still understand them when he's not in the Void anymore.

The hand on his shoulder moves away. "Are you calling me  _ incompetent? _ "

He winces like she slapped him. "No. Far from it." He wills himself to relax, eyes locked firmly on the not-sea below without seeing it. "You would've never reached this place as you were before. The Twin-bladed Knife would've driven you mad." He risks a glance toward her arms, once again folded together, and stares at her quasi-dead hand. "You'd been touched by the Void before, when Emily changed history and returned you eye and arm to you, but the Void doesn't like it when things are taken from it. I gave it what it wanted, in exchange for the things you needed to reach me."

He'd plucked a stray chunk of obsidian out of the air and forced it into Billie's skull with his thumb. It seemed so simple at the time. Amusing, even. But now all he wants is to beg for her pardon.

He manages to meet her gaze by focusing on her normal eye, though his head stays bowed. She's upset, her lips are drawn tight, but there's also a crease in her brow. That Eye, that Void-damned  _ Eye _ is glaring at him like a raging inferno behind the jagged black surface and he has to fight to maintain eye contact.

After what feels like an eternity, Billie sighs and touches her normal fingers to her forehead. Her head shakes slightly. "Look, whatever happened, happened. Water under the prow. You can't change it. But I said you can change  _ yourself _ , and I mean it. Let's just get out of here, you can talk all you want when we've stopped for the night."

She holds out a hand. It takes him a moment to understand why, but then he wraps his long fingers around her glove. "Very well."

Without another word Billie makes to step off the edge of the stone, but he just barely makes out the ghost of her target on the floating rock closest to them.

The world suddenly  _ heaves _ and they're standing on it.

He stumbles, but she steadies him. "I'm alright," he says at her questioning look, partly to try and get the gaze of her Eye away from him as soon as possible. "It's been some time since I was last human. It's a... familiar novelty."

She smirks but doesn't comment on it. On the next Displacement he manages to land somewhat steady, and on the third he even does so with some amount of grace. One more, and they're on solid ground level with the localized whirlwind that marks the way out. He feels his hair ripple as they approach, but then he stops.

He looks back at the Void.

His eyes trace the length of the colossal obsidian spire that was his gravestone for so very long. He watches the Leviathans floating by, listens to their mournful song. One has its belly torn open, its eye missing, blood and viscera trailing like ink in water. Its voice is quieter than the rest, more pained, but he listens anyway. He soaks it all in and tries to engrave it into his memory, the cold of the air-that-isn't, the dull sheen of the faux obsidian. This might be the last time he's in the Void, and he finds himself missing it already.

"Are you done feeling nostalgic?"

He realizes he closed his eyes at some point. His hair is still rippling. When he opens them he finds himself staring at one of the Leviathans. It's swimming slower, moving closer.

He lets go of Billie's hand and steps toward it. The great beast slows to a halt, right in front of him, close enough for him to reach out and lay a hand on its scarred snout. It's voice reverberates inside him like thunder, it rattles inside his chest and makes it hard to breathe, but he doesn't pull away. He rests his forehead next to his hand and breathes in deep. Salt and ammonia fill his lungs. It comes out as a long, wistful sigh. The fringe of his hair grows damp with seawater.

"Farewell." He opens his eyes and steps back, lets his hand slip away. "May your next Anchor be as steady as the Ocean."

A long undulating call echoes through him in answer. A wish of good luck and safe travels. The Leviathan turns and swims away, still singing. He returns to Billie's side and takes her hand.

She doesn't move. "Anchor?" she asks instead.

He looks toward the shrinking form of the Leviathan. "Their words. The Void needs an Anchor, lest its presence seep into reality and warp it beyond recognition. It won't happen within many human lifetimes, but someone will be chosen to replace me eventually."

He's still watching the Leviathan. It disappears into the gray haze of the Void. The blue never came back after Delilah's tampering.

"I always assumed I would be the one to watch their demise, not the other way around," he muses quietly. He can feel Billie watching him but offers no further comment.

After a moment she turns her attention back to the portal. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Her hand grips around his tightly. Her other limb, the one he tampered with, lifts toward the portal and splays out its fingers. Shifting cyan blazes through the dead hand and the portal responds in kind, flaring brighter and wider, more and more chaotic, until it stabilizes and he can see something like sunlight peeking through the very center of the little maelstrom.

She pulls him through like a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes im aware that canonically the outsider died at 15 but writing sex with literal children isnt something im keen on so i guess you could call this a very slightly altered AU
> 
> anyway! hello, my name is dragoncurl and i very rarely post things here and even more rarely read things others have posted. ive been binging on dishonored fics for the past like week and needed to channel that energy somewhere and now here we are. only vague ideas about where this is going but i hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> ive already got the second chapter done i think but ill wait a couple days to post it, try to create some semblance of an update schedule like im some kind of Professional


	2. Garb and Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider is a big whiny baby, and also finds out he has Video Game Clothes.

The sun blinds him so thoroughly he has to stop and just let it wash over him. It's not even noon, it must be well past four, and yet he can't even attempt to blink against the harsh light. Billie turns him away from the sun and he mumbles a brief 'thanks', but then he just stands there, trying to get used to it. He feels the bite of sunlight on his nape, wonders briefly if he'll get burnt.

"Everything alright?"

He nods. "Yes." Billie still has a hand on his shoulder. It's the dead one, it's not hot like its organic counterpart, doesn't have the give of flesh to its firm grip. He tries squinting and only succeeds in making his eyes water. "Has the world always been quite this _bright?_ "

"I'm afraid so. What's the matter? Is the Void God afraid of the light?"

He can _hear_ the smile in her voice, it's infuriating, and it must show on his face because Billie actually _chuckles_ , but decides not to say anything else. He spends the next several minutes alternating between squinting through his tears and wiping at his eyes, smelling the dust in the air, feeling the slight breeze that sometimes blows past. His clothes aren't _thick_ , exactly, but they aren't light either, so he's pleasantly surprised to find that they don't trap the heat in an uncomfortable way. It's near sunset anyway, there's thankfully not a lot of heat being delivered by the harsh light.

 _Eventually_ , he manages to look around without flinching, though he still has to shield his eyes with an arm when he turns westward.

The scene around is eerily reminiscent of the one he just left. Stone reaches into the sky and closes in around them, only this time it's the simple, mundane grey rock of the Shindaerey Peak. There's a large cart laden with sawn logs and an old warehouse up against the stone wall. One of the Eyeless Billie knocked out earlier is still laying right out in the open, a growing lump where their head was slammed against the ground. The sight makes him want to smile for some reason.

"So what is the plan?" he asks without looking at her, because he can feel the Eye on him.

"Get back to civilization. It took me almost a week to get here, it'll probably be longer with you in tow. You have until then to figure out what you want to do."

He nods, then follows her when she starts to move.

What _does_ he want to do? He has no idea.

He thinks of Emily, the last of his Marked, and wonders if she still is. The Mark was his name but that's no longer property of the Void, it shouldn't tether her to it. Is it still emblazoned on her skin? Did it change to reflect his absence? Did it just vanish like smoke on the wind? She'll always be Void-touched after having the Mark, but whether she can still channel that touch into her supernatural abilities is something he can't know. All he knows is that she wouldn't have died or been negatively affected by what he, at the time, thought to be his fast-approaching death.

His gaze finds Billie's back ahead of him, clad in dull dusty red. He touches his neck. There's an almost imperceptible welt of a scar across his throat, no doubt just as pale as the skin around it, but he can feel it. He wonders if she would've followed it with the Knife, split open his neck and let him bleed out like the first time. Or would she have plunged the Twin-blade through his ribs instead, so that his last moments as a human were taken over by the feel of his heart beating around air instead of blood?

An unbidden shudder ripples through him. He makes a mental note to thank her profusely later for sparing him.

The rest of the day is spent making preparations for the trip back to Karnaca.

Billie strips the Eyeless of everything that could be of use. She gathers all the canned food and bags it up for travel. She hands him a sword and dagger, both also taken from the cultists, and he finds new straps on his clothes to buckle them into that are the exact size and shape he needs them to be. The sword hangs from his hip, but the dagger he tucks into his sleeve.

"You know how to use these?" Billie asks when he gingerly takes each blade from her grasp.

"I know all there is to know. But I suspect the practice is another matter entirely."

She frowns. "I'll have to see how you move then. Come on."

They keep ransacking the cultist camp. They take a spare bedroll for him and a backpack, but he finds that his clothes not only provide him with convenient straps, but also perfectly-sized pockets for all the coin and other small little trinkets he receives. The fabric doesn't even show the volume or weight stored in it, it's like he's using the Void itself to stash his belongings.

He quickly grows fond of his Void-woven Garb. One last gift from the home of the Leviathans.

By the time night has fallen and they make camp in the woods, he feels more exhausted than he probably should. It was one or two hours of gathering supplies, then about the same amount of walking through the waning light of dusk until Billie found a place she deemed suitable for them to sleep in, yet he's aching all over. It's a small mercy when Billie lets him rest while she sets things up, gets a fire going, pries open a few cans of food and sets them over the flames to simmer. The not-entirely-pleasant smell of hagfish and eel fills the air. He's at least thankful there isn't any whale included in their evening meal.

He sits by the fire, sheds his coat, undoes the top two buttons on his shirt so he can rub his sore shoulders with a groan. By the Void, his life at the temple used to be so much easier than this. Before they killed him, anyway.

He's just dwelling on that memory, on the weight of the rings on his fingers, when that very same Twin-blade comes under his chin. It doesn't even touch him, he can just _feel_ its proximity in much the same way he can feel when Billie's Eye is upon him, which it is now when his body locks up and freezes.

"Relax," she says with some amusement and pulls the Knife away. "I already made the decision not to kill you. I just want to see your bladework. Come on, get up."

The breath that clogged up his throat comes out slightly shaky. His eyes follow the tip of the Twin-blade with no small amount of trepidation. "Would you _please_ not wave that thing around or put it anywhere near me unannounced _ever_ again?"

"You didn't seem bothered by it when you gave it to me."

He frowns. "Different circumstances. Certainty of death is far less frightening than _un_ certainty."

She quirks an eyebrow up. "I'm sure," Billie says in a tone that expresses quite the opposite, then gestures at him with that damned Knife again. "Either way, get up and get your sword out. You're taking first watch in case the Eyeless come knocking, and I need to know you'll at least not die until I can be there to help you."

He groans. He's tempted to argue, he's still sore all over, but she's right, of course she is. The cultists will wonder who knocked them all out and took their stuff, it's entirely possible that they'll search the surrounding forest and come across their little camp.

He gets up begrudgingly, making a point of buttoning up his shirt again before drawing his sword out of its scabbard. It's a simple thing, nothing overly fancy, just a single cutting edge and no flair, but it's serviceable. He follows Billie away from the campfire, and in the meantime he gives the blade a few experimental twirls and swings, trying to get a feel for the weight, how it drags through the air. On one such swing the sword suddenly clangs loud against Billie's Twin-blade and he can't help but flinch back.

She's definitely amused by his reaction, he can see it in her gaze, in her smirk. His skin is crawling with the Silver of the Eye upon him but he adamantly refuses to meet it. "You don't look like you're about to stab yourself by accident, so that's something. Now, I'm going to swing at you a few times and I want to see you either parry or dodge out of the way, whatever feels safest. If you think that's attacking instead of defending, then go right ahead. I want to see you survive, I don't need anything fancy."

Uncomfortable tension settles into his frame. He _knows_ Billie won't kill him or even hurt him if she can avoid it, but seeing the Knife pointed at him just puts him on edge. It makes his neck tingle unpleasantly, his wrists, his ankles, his hands seem heavy with the phantom weight of obsidian rings. But he tries to push it aside, to focus on the feel of his Void-woven Garb instead, on the annoying but not-entirely-unwelcome ache across his muscles, on the chill night air seeping through the light fabric of his shirt. He's not in the Ritual Hold, and he never will be again.

He tries to form the stance he knows he's supposed to for defending himself. He has all the knowledge in the world packed into his pitifully human brain, which means he has to take a moment to sort through it all, to try and remember both how swordplay works and how Billie in particular likes to fight.

"Alright. Show me how it's done."


	3. Ten Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they travel for a while and the Outsider talks about his death.
> 
> Warning for detailed descriptions involving blood, knives, and a brief mention of non-consensual use of mind-altering substances.

Billie calls it 'training', but he privately thinks 'torture' might be more appropriate.

For nine days and ten nights they travel together, and for nine of them she makes him sword fight before they sleep, every time right at the end of the day when he's most exhausted. Walking for hours on end would've been bad enough, but no. Apparently he  _ also _ has to defend himself when he can barely stand for more than a minute without his legs screaming in protest.

For ten nights he also watches the forest while Billie sleeps, and he's honestly not sure which is worse, the forced physical labor or the death-inducing boredom of hours of nothing but the quiet crackling of the campfire and the velvety darkness beyond its flickering light.

On the first night she knocks him on his ass more times than he'd care to admit, it's embarrassing. His clothes end up dirtied and ripped in a few places where the Twin-blade caught the fabric, and that somehow hurts more than if she'd actually stabbed him. But she proclaims him "capable enough, I suppose", which is probably the best he could hope for. The watch afterward crawls along with infuriating slowness, and while he does hear Eyeless searching nearby and quietly wakes Billie, their hiding spot isn't found.

At least in the morning he finds his Garb completely clean and free of tears. He grows more and more attached to it by the day.

On the second night he somehow performs  _ worse _ . He blames the full day of near-nonstop walking for it. Billie actually lands a blow, he ends up with a bleeding gash on his upper chest and shoulder. But after they're done fighting and she makes him take off his shirt so she can dab some elixir on the wound, he makes a point to thank her. For  _ everything _ . He insists on it when she tries to dismiss it. And he offers to answer any questions she might have to the best of his ability. Billie says she'll think about it, then throws the rag stained with blood and elixir at his head and tells him to "get dressed, I could count your ribs like this".

On the third night they stop by a small river, where the water still clings to the cold of the mountain peak it's born from. He gets the entirely novel experience of trying to, and failing spectacularly at, catching fish in the shallow stream. Billie tells him to gather other things instead, little freshwater crustaceans that try to nip at his fingers with their tiny claws. He fares a little better at that and has a reasonable handful to dump into the boiling water she prepares. He also gets to gut one of the two fish Billie catches and finds himself strangely fascinated by the feel of warm, freshly-spilled blood on his hands, so starkly red and vivid and  _ hot _ against his pale skin.

He's been getting used to all the trappings of being human, but some sensations still stand out in his mind more than others. Anything to do with heat, he's coming to realize. The Void was always vaguely cold, and as a projection of a corpse he had no body heat of his own. He supposes that must be why.

Training that night is mercifully brief. They're both full and warm and lazy from their meal of fish and shrimp. Billie puts little effort into her strikes before declaring him 'fine' and ambling off toward her bedroll.

On the fourth night, Billie foregoes training and takes him up on his offer.

Predictably, she asks about her arm first. Why he couldn't have just given her a Mark like everyone else. He explains that he tried and failed. He tells her of the timeline-that-never-was, the one Emily prevented from happening where she lost her arm and eye in Stilton's home. He tells her she was Void-touched before he ever appeared to her because of this, that there was a whisper of Void all twisted up and gnarled inside her arm and eye that he just couldn't comprehend. Her nightmares on the weeks before his visit were likely that smallest piece of Void reacting to the coming event.

He can't help but stare at her shortened limb while he explains. She always takes off her Black Shard Arm at night. He hasn't gotten used to it. It's a strange sight, watching her just unbuckle the strap and let the thing slip away. And the worst part is the Arm moves _ even when it's not attached _ , which did not help him sleep at all the first time he saw it happen.

Billie has more questions, and he more answers. He tells her he would've had to give her the Eye regardless of whether she got a Mark or not. Without it, she never would've been able to absorb the power of the Dead God, and therefore never would've made it to the Ritual Hold. He tells Billie she's far closer to godhood than she might realize, all she needs is to practice her abilities. Runes might help, but he's uncertain. He admits that in all his four thousand plus years, he was never a part of the creation of anyone quite as unique as her, and he had little time to look into all her possible futures.

The last thing she asks that night is about him. His life before the Void. He feels his voice grow detached and monotone while he answers.

He lived on the streets. He doesn't remember why he didn't have a family, only that he was alone. He got by in whatever way he could, even when that meant serving as someone's shitty facsimile of intimacy for a few meager coin. At fifteen he was found by the apostles and brought to the temple and given a life fit for a prince. His suspicion faded as weeks turned to months and to years. He was put through tests, simple things like guessing the names of stones he didn't know, caring for a colony of beetles for a time, trying to listen to the hum of runes and bone charms.

On his eighteenth birthday a celebration was announced. He was bathed, clad in long flowing black robes, and adorned with jewels of silver and obsidian. They opened a portal to a place that was cold and hollow, though he remembers liking the blue of the sky. It was otherworldly, but familiar. They brought him to a stone slab. He tried to get away, but they bound his wrists and ankles. There was chanting. Someone made him drink something that burned his throat. In retrospect, it was probably full of alcohol and other things. It made him sluggish. It numbed the pain of the ropes chafing his joints. His memory gets hazy after that, but he could never forget the sensation of the Twin-blade touching his skin, that brief moment where everything seemed to crawl to a stop.

It was like he could feel every tiny thread of flesh tearing as the blade was dragged across his neck. Cold turned to boiling hot around his throat, blood from his core gushed over his skin, up his throat, down his windpipe. A spike of pure terror dissipated the fog in his brain but it was too late. He thrashed with all his might, tried to scream, to beg, to do  _ anything _ , but his lungs were drowning, his vision was full of sparks, his mouth was spattered with red. His voice was nothing but wet gurgles. All the feeling in his body seemed to fade away with alarming speed, his sight receded into a pinprick of light and to nothing at all.

The last thing that registered in his dying brain was the cold, unforgiving stone under him.

It hadn't been warmed at all by his presence.

Then, falling.

Falling for an eternity, or for only a millisecond. He doesn't know. Time is meaningless in death.

No, not falling.

Being pulled.

Being  _ dragged _ , with such force it felt like whatever was left of him might rend itself apart.

Ice blooming in his core, his chest, his soul, whatever he was at the time, and spreading to take over his entire being.

Numbness.

Floating, weightless.

No sight, no sound, no touch, only a sense of formless existence.

Then, quite abruptly, there was scorching unbearable pain across his eyes and he doubled over in a body he'd only just realized he had, clutching desperately at his face. He screamed through a windpipe free of blood. His eyeballs froze and boiled at the same time, clawing at the bone and flesh around them, roiling like a storm at sea, until they seemed condense and grow heavier. The pain stopped. His breathing was ragged. He was shivering.

He realized he was still lying on cold, hard stone, only now he was curled up on his side.

Opening his eyes revealed the same scene as before, but changed. The apostles of the temple were naught but stone around him. One was above him, the Twin-bladed Knife in their hand poised over what he presumed to have been his dying body to them, before the ritual cast them as statues.

He sat up slowly. He was naked, but as soon as the thought occurred to him the black robes formed around him in the blink of an eye. He got to his feet and felt around his wrists, his throat, but there were no wounds.

He felt strange.

He  _ feels _ strange, with Billie's Eye on him and the recollection of his death fresh in his mind. He never really dwelled on it too much before now, and certainly not with a normal human mind instead of the vague sense of detachment that always plagued his thoughts as a God.

Billie asks if he's okay and he says yes. He doesn't feel bad. It's been four thousand years. It just feels... strange. That's the only word he can use. No other human can claim to remember their own death.

They're both unique, he muses to himself.

There's not a lot of talk after that. She takes first watch this time, so he goes to sleep and dreams of the Void. It's blue, it's how he knows it's a dream and not the real thing, but it's comforting anyway.

On the fifth night she doesn't ask him anything. They fight, eat, and sleep.

On the sixth night they have to scare off a pack of wolves, but the routine is otherwise uneventful. Billie asks why he was chosen and he says it was because of his eyes and his name, but she doesn't ask what that name is. He doesn't offer it. He's not sure why.

On the seventh night he almost manages to knock her down during training. They're becoming almost evenly matched, even if he still thinks she's holding back. She laughs at the face he makes when she cuts open a can of whale meat for their meal.

On the eighth night Billie somehow kills a giant hare for dinner and he gets to help her skin and cook it. It's the most delicious thing he's eaten since his return to humanity. Training involves dagger techniques instead of sword play. He gets injured again. A cut on his arm, nothing serious.

On the ninth night they can smell the spices of Karnaca in the air. It makes the canned food taste better. He demands that Billie not hold back and wins himself two more wounds, a shallow stab near his hip and a slash right across his chest, but he's pleased to see he can mostly hold his own against her now. The elixir will have him up and running in the morning anyway, the sting from the cuts is almost welcome. It reminds him he's human.

On the tenth night they don't camp in the woods. They take shelter in an old abandoned logging mill instead. They start training with daggers again, but switch back to swords halfway through and he finally,  _ finally _ , gets the upper hand. He sends Billie crashing to the ground in much the same way she had on their very first night together. He can't hide the smile that creeps across his face when he stands over her, sword pointed at her heart triumphantly. She looks stunned, then proud. She hugs him and pats him on the back when he helps her up.

"Nice work, kid," Billie says next to his ear. It makes him think of Daud, thawing him back to life with his name whispered barely above a breath.

She takes first watch. He goes to sleep with an odd mix of elation and sorrow in his heart.

Tomorrow they head into Karnaca.


	4. Karnaca's Wild Exotics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider spends money he probably shouldn't.

Morning finds them sat together after a breakfast of cold eels, trying to figure out their next move.

"Regardless of what you've decided to do," Billie's saying, "you'll need identification papers forged. You have money, but you need to be able to prove who you are if you want to get through basic security without spending it all on bribes. We'll have to stay in Karnaca for a few days, I know some people who can get you set up."

He nods, but his eyes are on her Arm. "What about you? Do they know you as you are now?"

"No." She fingers the buckle of the strap around her elbow. "I can take this off and buy an eyepatch, don't worry about it. Now." She grabs the book she's been taking notes in, he's pretty sure it's something of a diary to her. "What do you want your official name to be?"

He thinks for a moment, but he already knows it's not going to be his actual name. He's not entirely sure why he's, at this point, practically hiding it from Billie. She hasn't asked about it, it feels like she doesn't care what it is and wouldn't use it even if he told her. Besides, his name comes from a long-dead language, it'd stand out too much if they used it on (forged) official papers. His looks are already going to draw attention by themselves, just because he doesn't have the eyes anymore doesn't mean he won't ever be recognized. Paintings exists with his  _ face _ on them.

He curses his own former lack of foresight for planting those images in the minds of the painters.

The name and surname he gives Billie are carefully chosen to be both somewhat common and of Tyvian origin. He's loathe to admit it, but being born in the same island as old Sokolov is probably the most believable he's going to get. Pale, black hair. It fits. It's just his eyes that'll stand out, his particular shade of palest green was rare even four thousand years ago, let alone in the present day.

Billie writes down the name and other details he gives her. He's not sure how much she's going to forge, but he also outlines a few cities in Tyvia that are decently-sized but not massive, a few minor noble families he could believably have been a part of. He highlights Alexin in particular as a likely city of origin, there have historically been more migrants from there to Dunwall than most other Tyvian settlements.

"So you're bound for Dunwall then?" she asks, eyes on the paper.

"Eventually, yes. I'd like to check on my last two Marked and see if I can still call them as such."

"And after that?"

He hums. "I can't say. Traveling might be interesting. Experiencing all the things I know but have no personal contact with."

"You do realize you still look like yourself?"

He frowns. "I'm aware."

Billie taps the butt of her pen against her lip. "Can you grow a beard?"

His frown becomes a scowl. "Not even if I wanted to."

She looks at him. "And you don't want to let your hair grow out either?"

"Ideally, yes."

Her face makes it clear that was the exact answer she was both expecting and didn't want. She even sighs. "Fine. Your funeral. Don't blame me when you get kidnapped by some deranged cultist." She scribbles down one last thing, tears out the page, folds it into a pocket of her coat, and puts both book and pen away. "I'll get in contact with my people once we're in the city. There's a safehouse you can use in the meantime, it should still be available. If not you'll have to make do blending into the crowd or renting a room somewhere."

"That should be doable."

Billie goes through her backpack one last time and pats the pocket with whatever list she's made for the day's activities. Seemingly satisfied, she gets to her feet. "Alright. We have our plan. Do you want to test your sword arm one last time?"

He rises as well with a smile. "Only if you're willing to hit the dirt again."

She rolls her eye, but returns the smile. "Pass." She digs into her bag and pulls out a rag to tie over her Silver of the Eye, then unbuckles her Black Shard Arm and stuffs it inside with the rest of her belongings. She makes sure her empty sleeve is safely pinned and tucked in place around her elbow and turns around to face him, single arm held out to the side. "How do I look?"

He scans her from head to foot. The edges of her eye are visible, so he steps close and tugs on the improvised eyepatch until it's covering as much of the obsidian as possible. He also straightens her collar, which seems to amuse her to no end. "Like a fugitive with wanted posters all over the city," he says through a smirk and steps back. "But you already know that. It should hold until you have a proper eyepatch made."

"Good." Billie heaves her pack off the ground, waits for him to do the same, and they set out into the morning sun.

Most of the early day is spent trudging through the growing signs of civilization around the outskirts of Karnaca. The logging mill they spent the night in was only the furthest one, but they pass by other fingers of humanity that creep into the surrounding wilderness. A maintenance hub for the windmills in the Wind Corridor, currently under repair by a crew of workers after apparent years of neglect. A mining outpost bustling with activity inside, but with only a single bored guard standing by the back door. Another logging mill, this one smaller but still active. Signs of the effort being put by the faux Duke to repair the damage done by the one he impersonates.

He smiles to himself at the memory. Watching the old Duke be hauled off to his own prison by Emily's machinations had been quite the amusement at the time.

For the first time since traveling together, lunch isn't around a campfire in the woods but on a table at an actual establishment that sells food. It's nothing but a dingy little pub meant to provide gruel for the workers traveling through, but it's the first meal he eats that neither he nor Billie cooked. Though, he privately thinks her campfire cuisine is much better than the globby, disgusting bowl of... stew? He's not even sure what it is. But they eat and move on.

In the afternoon Billie tries to lead him to the safehouse, but he declines, so she just gives him directions on how to find it and leaves him alone.

He wanders the streets. He listens to bits of random conversation, someone haggling prices over a box of fruit, a mother scolding their child for running off, a cluster of men discussing plans to enter a bloodfly-infested building. There are Grand Guard about, but he mostly keeps his distance. The sun isn't hot, not through his Void-blessed clothes, but he takes off his coat anyway and folds it neatly inside his bag to be less suspicious. He does take a minute to transfer a few things from it to pockets on his pants, however, particularly his stash of coin.

On a whim he decides to enter one of the shops. The fancy plaque above the door depicts a flock of Pandyssian birds in flight, and the ornate golden letters name it the  _ Wild Exotics Tailor and Haberdashery: for all your clothing and accessory needs! _ He remembers this being one of the more well-respected establishments in Karnaca for this sort of thing while still, hopefully, being within his limited budget. And he knows a few things that should make the owner...  _ amenable _ to anything he might need to discuss.

The inside is pleasantly cool. There are fans mounted on the walls, their wind sometimes ruffles feathers on some of the pieces on display. There are a few other customers being tended to, so he's free to wander the shop and peruse the wares. His fingers trail over every fabric, every texture, every embroidery, every different type and material and shape of button. He takes a few things off a rack and holds them over his clothes in front of a mirror, though with little intention on buying any of it; he's not going to replace his Void-woven Garb any time soon.

There's a dress that would look wonderful on him, though. Bottle-green around the bust that fades into a lighter, bluer shade at the feet, with a soft light fabric and a few tiny gems woven into the threads below the knee, resembling the reflections of light on rippling water. It accents his eyes nicely. But he sighs, strokes the fabric one last time, and puts it away.

"Hello and welcome, young sir!"

His musings are interrupted by the owner of the establishment approaching him. An older man, 43 in age if he remembers correctly, with a round face, dirty blonde hair rendered lighter with white, and a bright smile. Ichabod is his name. He has a wife and two children he abandoned in Morley twelve years ago and to whom he still sends money on a regular basis despite not knowing whether any of them are still alive. Mostly content with his life, though he sometimes drowns old sorrows with drink before going to sleep.

His mental cataloging of what he knows takes only a second, and then he's smiling primly at the shop owner. "Thank you very much, my dear Ichabod. Your shop is as impressive as my friend's accounts made it out to be."

"Oh, you've heard of me, have you? I'm glad to hear it!" The man shakes his hand enthusiastically, then sweeps an arm through the air at all the pieces on display. "Please, whatever you need, I'd be happy to provide! And who is this fabled friend of yours? They must've been well satisfied with their purchase, I can assure you yours will be just as fulfilling!"

"Well..." He makes a show of glancing around the shop, at the one other customer still lingering by a stand full of various buttons, and ducking his head closer. He lowers his voice. "She may have introduced herself as either Meagan or Billie. I believe she had a red coat made by you?"

Ichabod's grin falters for just the briefest moment. "Yes, of course, I remember her! Quite a request, but I was proud to serve, always am! What can I do for you, young sir?" The other customer leaves while the man is talking, and he hurries to the door. A 'closed' sign goes up and the blinds come down.

He smiles to himself. "I was hoping to purchase gloves, and a hat. Two pairs of the former, one for general use and another for colder climates, I'll be bound for the north in the near future. Everything in black, if at all possible. And..." He lowers his voice again and moves a little too close for comfort. The fact he's slightly taller than Ichabod helps. He even places a long, pale hand on the man's shoulder with a calculated amount of pressure. "I trust you to keep this between us? My situation here in Karnaca is somewhat delicate, I'm sure you understand." His other hand goes to the hilt of the sword at his hip.

Ichabod nods, his grin looking more forced by the second. "Of course, of course! Nothing but the utmost discretion, young sir, I can assure you! You'll get nothing but the best, tailor's honor! Please, come, come!"

He's led to the back of the shop and made to stand in front of a full length mirror while Ichabod frets to himself about what kind of hat would work best. He watches the man pick up several models, turn them in his hand, shake his head and put them back down, until Ichabod makes up his mind and comes back to his side. "Here, young sir, try this one. A bit of a nautical flair."

The hat is very simple. Flat top, a brim not too wide but not too small with only a slight upward curve, made of thick sturdy canvas of the darkest gray instead of leather. It does have a black leather strap around it and a silver buckle on the left side. Other than that it has no flair, no extravagant feathers or exaggerated stuffed animals like the absurd hats worn by the kind of nobility he despises, the kind that swarms through the Boyle parties like rats on a corpse.

He smiles and turns his head this way and that. He pulls his coat out of his bag and dons it to see the effect. It makes him think of the daring pirates in the stories Emily used to enjoy so much as a young, newly-orphaned Empress. It's a subtle effect, nothing too eye catching. Just a little extra flair.

"You have a very good eye, my dear Ichabod," he announces, removing the hat and handing it back to the shop owner. "I'll take it. Now, the gloves, if you please?"

"Of course, of course! Right away, young sir, just a moment!"

While Ichabod fusses with an appropriate box for the hat and with finding a measuring tape, he folds his coat and puts it away again. He straightens his collar in the mirror. It's a strange feeling, getting to interact with another human for an extended period of time. He could get used to that fear in Ichabod's eyes. That he definitely could.

Finding the right pair of gloves takes a little longer, but eventually he decides on a dark bluish pair of light but sturdy material, and a thicker pair of black leather lined with hare fur. All in all, the three items cost him a good chunk of his stolen funds plus the extra coin he leaves behind to ensure Ichabod's cooperation, but he's happy with the purchase. He even leaves the store wearing the hat, he's that pleased with it. It makes him feel a rogue banished prince-turned-pirate.

He supposes the rogue and banished part isn't entirely untrue.

Afternoon turns to early evening. He stops by the safehouse and leaves his backpack there as well as most of the things he'd stuffed in the various impossible pockets of his coat. He's not sure if they could be picked, and he'd rather not find out the hard way. The hat stays as well, with a note pinned to it telling Billie where he intends to be that evening. The coin he transfers to a pocket on the inside of the coat at chest height to try and keep it as safe as possible, and then he's back on the street with nothing but his Void-woven Garb on his back and the dagger in his sleeve.

The air is full of smells and promise, the scent of spices and the sea and bloodflies and gutted fish and the first whiffs of bottles being uncorked and spirits being imbibed.

It's thoroughly intoxicating to his eighteen-year-old body.

He should know better, he has four thousand years of experience as a God and he doesn't even need them to know it's a bad idea to do what he's doing, that Billie's going to berate him for it, but he can't resist. He's been human for barely more than a week and this is the first major city he's been let loose in and his blood is  _ singing _ with all the possibilities. He navigates the streets as dusk turns to twilight and music fills the air, bars open their doors, workers come from the docks and the mines to crowd around tables and share drinks and gambles.

Regret will undoubtedly come in the morning, but right now all he wants is to have  _ fun _ .


	5. The Belly of the Whale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider makes a new friend (with benefits).
> 
> Next chapter will be nothing but sex and will be posted shortly. Feel free to skip it if that's not what you're here for.

There's this one pub in Karnaca that is, a) full of arguably the best drinks in the city, b)  _ not _ full of drunken assholes every night, and c) somehow not prohibitively expensive. Oh, it has drunks alright, every pub has drunks. But everyone is adamant about there being no one who steps over the line. It has its own private guard that keeps the order both within and without, and the patrons who frequent enter knowing that they'll be promptly thrown out of the building at the first sign of trouble. It's one last bastion of decency that has managed to cling to life through sheer force of will and the support of its many regulars, despite the chaos cause by the (former) Duke's reign.

They call it the Belly of the Whale.

Not the most glamorous title, but one that everyone who enjoys a quieter fare for their evening getaways knows by heart.

It is also the title that  _ he _ seeks in his exploration of the darkening streets, as twilight turns to dusk and the light fades from the sky. He knows all there is to know, but it's still hard to actually put it to use sometimes.

In time he finds it, tucked away in an unassuming corner at the end of a street with no other exit. The sign depicts one of the great Leviathans in profile, carved from wood that's been bleached bone white by the Karnacan sun. Its mouth hangs wide open as it chases a school of fish made of little metal pieces hanging in threads like wind chimes, and across its flank are carved the words that give the pub its name, stained by rain and dust and the passage of time. The curtains visible through the windows are heavy and red.

There's a very large, very scarred man standing by the door. The uniform resembles that of the Grand Guard, but is distinctly less ornate. He pauses in front of the guard out of respect and clearly sees the man appraise him up and down. "I ain't ever seen you 'round," the guard rasps with a voice that's seen its fair share of smoke and drink.

"I'm not from around," he responds calmly. "I've just arrived in town and was hoping for a more quiet experience than the average bar can offer. It's been a long few days of travel."

One of the guard's eyebrows goes up. "What are ya, Tyvian or summin'?"

"Something like that." He gestures to the door. "May I go in?"

The man grunts and looks forward again. "Don't cause any trouble."

"I don't intend to."

He pushes inside.

The air smells of wine and fruit. The decor is definitely fitting of the name, which amuses him to no end. The walls are a very light wood, maybe even purposefully bleached to resemble bone, and everywhere he looks there are red and dark pink fabrics hanging as decorations, curtains, and in doorways in lieu of actual doors. The bar is a reddish wood with a white marble or granite top that matches the tables scattered about. The seats are all blood-red fabric. Blood-amber statues decorate some of the alcoves in the walls that aren't hidden behind the various fabrics. It's only the lamps that break the otherwise uniform coloration, hanging as orbs of thick, wavy yellow glass that casts a diffuse and comfortable light across the space. There's a stage on the right side, but no music yet.

It really does feel like stepping inside one of the great beasts, but in a very...  _ tasteful _ way. And he can even detect the hum of a rune hidden somewhere, which he chooses to interpret as some impressive dedication to the theme.

Behind the bar is the one he knows to be the owner and the main force responsible for the peaceful atmosphere. If Aramis Stilton was the sole reason miners have better conditions now than ever before, then Veronica Levisia is the sole reason the Belly of the Whale has the reputation it does now. A tall, broad, heavyset woman with skin like the darkest wood, pale palms, and full lips that can form the deepest scowl or the most loving smile in all of Serkonos. He knows a lot about her and almost none of it could ever be used against her.

He sidles up to the bar and she immediately eyes him up and down, but her face doesn't show much of anything. Years of practice, he knows. He doesn't let it deter his easy smile as he slides a hand over the cool marble. "My, you look just as stunning as I've been told. It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear Veronica." He holds out a hand.

Thankfully, her expression softens and she accepts the handshake. "Flattery like that will get you far, kid. What can I get you?"

He digs into the breast pocket inside his coat and pulls out several coins. "A bottle of your finest Tyvian red, if you please, and the widest assortment of fruit you can put together with whatever remains."

Veronica takes the coin and counts it out. He can just barely detect the surprise under her practiced exterior. That was another big chunk of his money gone right there, but he's not feeling particularly worried about it. "Alright, that can be arranged. Any preference for the edibles?"

He thinks for a moment. "A variety in textures would be most appreciated, and failing that a variety in tastes. I trust your judgement."

The woman nods. "Will do. You taking one of the booths? Want me to bring it to you?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, my dear, yes. And..." He lowers his voice and leans in close. "The friend who pointed me here heard something about, shall we say,  _ private _ rooms. If I were to need one..."

If she's surprised by the question, Veronica doesn't show it. Her voice lowers to match his. "Well, we don't normally hand those out to just anyone, but..." She seems to appraise him. The heavy coins are still in her hand. "It's another five coin for a night, minimum. Paid after the deed in case there's any damage."

He nods. "Duly noted, my dear, thank you very much."

He slips away and occupies one of the plush U-shaped seats that line the left wall and each curl around a table. There are several other patrons, most around Billie's age or older, but he also spots a handful of newer faces. He's fairly certain he's the youngest present, however. He threads his fingers together under his chin and contents himself with watching the musician get ready to perform on stage.

A woman with fiery red hair and a beautiful dress that makes him think of flames stands front and center with an acoustic guitar. She's joined by a man of stocky built carrying a bulky cello, and a third person who holds a complicated flute in their hands. The trio exchanges a few words, and the music starts just as Veronica brings him his order and he thanks her again.

It's a beautiful rendition of 'The Calling of the Endless Sea' and, for a time, he simply listens enraptured. The music fills the space easily, some trick of architecture making the sound carry clear across the room to where he's seated. The bassy tones of the cello remind him of whale song, it's unexpectedly comforting in his ears.

He pops the cork and pours himself a glass of wine. It smells wonderful. The taste is bitter, but also pleasantly sweet. He finishes the first glass quickly and moves on to the large bowl of fruit waiting before him. Exactly one piece of every type imaginable, so many their fragrance blends together. Veronica did a very good job with her selection. For a while he pays little mind to the surroundings, focused on sampling all the different flavors at his disposal and sipping his wine between each bite while the music flows through him. A pleasant heat pools in his gut and fogs up his brain ever so slightly. He feels nice and loose and comfy in his Void-woven Garb.

It takes him a second to register the person that walks through the middle of the room and slides into the other side of his U-shaped seat. He can't seem to wipe the lazy smile off his face.

"Seems like you need help eating all this, friend," the stranger says.

They're a local, he can tell by more than their accent. Tanned skin, black wavy hair, dark eyes like melted chocolate. Their cheeks are flushed and they have their own glass, though its empty. Plain clothes, they're not a noble but they're far from poor. No major callouses on the hands so whatever they work with, it's not manual labor. Young, no more than 25 if even that.

That's all he can glean about them. He has no idea who they are and that tickles him more than he'd care to admit. His smile widens. "You're welcome to it,  _ friend _ ." He lets the word hang from his lips as he offers them the bottle. They hold out their glass and he fills it.

"Don't think I've ever seen the likes of you around here," they say after a sip. "Traveling? You must be far from home if so."

"Yes, and yes. I'm bound for Dunwall in the near future, as soon as I can settle a few matters here in Karnaca. I have a friend taking care of that now." He plucks a sliced fig from the bowl and eats it with deliberate slowness. A part of him laments the fact he decided not to wear his hat earlier.

The stranger watches his lips and either doesn't care to hide it or doesn't realize they're doing it. "Really? I hear there's been a lot of commotion around there a few months back, you sure you're headed that way? Might be dangerous."

He smiles, finger toying with the edge of his wine glass. "I'm no stranger to perilous situations." He pushes the bowl of fruit across the table, partly as an excuse to move his hand closer to theirs. "How about you, my dear? I'm guessing you're a regular?"

They choose a banana from the bowl but then disappointingly eat it by breaking off pieces with their fingers to pop into their mouth. "Yep. Don't much like all the sweaty miners and dockhands that fill most of the other bars. I work for the Karnaca Gazette, don't really do well with that kind of environment."

He nods languidly. The wine seems to have vanished quicker than he expected, the drains the last of it straight from the bottle and sets it aside. "Should I take that to mean you'd be against  _ me _ making you all hot and bothered, my friend?" He closes the gap and rests his hand on top of theirs.

Their mind seems to grind to a halt at the touch. He's stroking a finger between their first and second knuckles, he knows how distracting that can be. They watch the small movement for a very long while before finding their voice again.

"A-ah... Everett," they say in a rush. "My name's Everett."

He leans forward. "Honestly, my dear, I don't particularly care." He flips his hand and wraps it around Everett's. He feels a shiver go through their (his?) frame and wonders if it's from how cold his hand is. "What I  _ do _ care about is that we could get a room of our own if you're still interested. I'll cover the cost."

They let out a shaky breath. "O-oh, Void, seriously? I didn't..."

He tilts his head. "What? You didn't think  _ I'd _ be interested? But you hoped I would, certainly. And perhaps you don't think your looks are particularly special, but let me tell you, my dear." He very lightly pinches their chin and tips their head back. "Your eyes have the most wonderful golden tones in this light." He doesn't even have to lie, the compliment is 100% true.

It brings an uncertain smile to their lips. "Oh Void, th-thank you. Your eyes are beautiful too, I... I've never seen such a light green before."

He grins. "Why, thank you. I'm quite partial to them myself." He rubs a thumb along the back of their hand. "So, what do you say, my dear? I came here for a pleasant experience, and you could most certainly qualify."

Everett looks toward the bar, where Veronica has enough grace to pretend to be polishing the marble. They take a few breaths and nod to themself, no doubt to settle their nerves. "Okay. Yeah, okay. Alright. But I'll pay for the room."

"If you insist." He pulls his hand back, mostly so he can lift the bowl into his arm when he rises smoothly out of his seat. He gestures toward the drapery that hides the stairs. "Shall we?"

Everett nods emphatically and even takes the lead. He follows close behind, sharing a brief look with Veronica to confirm the room rental before he ducks behind the curtain and climbs the steps after Everett.


	6. Sword and Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider has some fun.
> 
> As previously stated, nothing but smut here, turn back if that's not your thing.

Where the main room of the Belly of the Whale tries to emulate the titular location, the stairs and the corridor beyond appear to reflect the ocean instead. The wood grains are dark and worn, the walls are a deep blue behind hanging decorations of shells, shiny metal fish, all manner of small sea creatures.

Everett picks a room with a large double bed under velvety black covers. It reminds him of the Void as he knew it for most of his godhood. He sets the bowl of fruit down on the nightstand at a safe distance, then sits on the edge of the mattress to start calmly unbuckling and shedding his boots, his socks, his coat, his blade. Everett does the same, though he has no coat or dagger to set aside.

When he's just barely gathering enough breath to speak he finds himself locked in an embrace and has to throw an arm back to not topple over. Everett's mouth is on his with a hunger he definitely didn't expect but which is no less welcome for it, and after a moment he responds in kind with a hum against their appreciative moan. His free hand worms under their arm, up their back, all the way into their hair. His heart starts to race, his blood starts to burn, it's the most wonderful and exhilarating feeling in his brief existence as a human.

Everett has to break away for air and he smiles. "My my, so very  _ eager _ . I'm flattered."

They give a breathy laugh. "You look  _ really _ good, man. Void, I really didn't expect you to agree, it was just... I just did it, I'd been watching you sit by yourself and you looked so hot and I thought 'fuck it' and joined you and..." He gives them a small kiss while they gather their thoughts, which doesn't seem to help. "Y-yeah, that. More of that please."

He hums again. He pulls back and places his hands on their hips to will them to move and sit back down, so he can swing a leg over their lap and straddle them, arms on their shoulders. Everett looks up at him with a shaky exhale. "How's this?"

They nod fervently. "That's good."

He lets them pull him down for another hungry, lustful kiss and feels their hands roam his torso, stop on the buttons of his shirt and start to undo them somewhat messily, but he doesn't try to hurry them. He enjoys the kiss, revels in the slight shaking of their hands, the faint sense of desperation when they stop unbuttoning halfway down and reach past the fabric, touching his skin with trembling fingers. He can't help his groan of delight, each fingertip feels like a little lump of hot coal grazing across his torso.

They frown and pull away when they palm across his chest. It's the slash, the last one he got, it's not completely healed; it was deeper than the other wounds. The scar is delicate and flushed pink. "You been in a fight?"

He shakes his head, mouth open around ragged breaths. "Training. Keep going."

After a moment Everett returns to the kiss and their hands keep roaming. They reach up and over his shoulders and down his arms, dragging the shirt with them, he has to shake his hands free of the bunched sleeves to tangle them through their hair again. They finish undoing the last few buttons and toss the garment carelessly aside, but their hands never stop exploring his torso and it makes him melt, they feel so perfectly  _ hot _ against his skin it's indescribable.

It's his turn to start frantically undoing buttons along Everett's front. He goes down to the end, unlike them, and wrestles the shirt off before wrapping his arms around them, feeling their skin, their flesh willing and fever-hot under his touch. He wonders vaguely if he feels cold, if it's uncomfortable for them, but then decides it doesn't matter and kisses them harder, hungrier, catching their lip in his teeth and making them moan.

His pants feel increasingly tight. When he reaches down between them he finds the exact same situation between Everett's legs and grins to himself. He hadn't wanted to assume, so it's a pleasant surprise to find what he prefers. They groan and try to buck into his palm, but his weight on their thighs prevents it.

He licks his lips. "What would you like to do?"

"Hoh, fuck, don't ask me that. I wanna see you all twisted up in orgasm, dude, that's it."

He smirks. "Well, yes, but  _ between _ then and now? How do you want to get there? There's a  _ lot _ of ways." He hasn't stopped palming the volume in Everett's pants and they practically  _ whimper _ at the continued touch.

Their hands on his waist are tight, he'll probably have marks in the morning.

He finds himself entirely happy with the concept.

"Fuck, okay, I just...  _ fuck _ ." He pulls his hand away. They breathe a sigh of both relief and want. "Alright, okay. Fuck. Okay. Just lie down. On your back. I wanna see you." They laugh to themself. "I don't even know your  _ name _ ..."

He smiles and gives them a quick kiss. "Names are meaningless," he whispers before finally climbing off their lap and into bed.

He settles onto his back and feels his weight sink comfortably into the mattress. Everett watches him the whole time. He takes his time arranging the pillow into the most comfortable position and even stretches with a low groan, which leaves his arm loose around his head when he looks at them.

"Well?"

They bite back a noise and crawl over him. They kiss him, but it's brief because their mouth quickly moves away to his jaw, then his neck, where he can't contain a laugh at the hickey they purposefully leave over his jugular. It's not the last, they keep kissing and sucking and nipping at his neck until he's moaning and sighing, and then they move lower, following his sternum, leaving a peck on the pink line of the scar, past his stomach and belly to hover over his groin.

They waste no time in undoing the front of his pants and yanking both it and his underwear right off, and then he's bare before them. Everett does take a moment to just admire him, all hot and flushed and wanting, but then they're hurriedly wrestling their own clothes off until they too are completely naked.

Everett crawls up his frame again and kisses him one last time. "You got any oil?" they breathe while he has to refrain from going too low with his hands.

"Unfortunately, no, and I can't promise I'd be able to take you regardless. It's been quite some time since I last did this."

They nod for a little longer than strictly necessary. "Alright. Alright, yeah, that's fine." They catch his hand when it starts to wander lower and pin it to the bed. His other wrist joins in shortly above his head. "This alright?"

"Oh,  _ yes _ ."

Everett nods again. Their mouth goes back to his neck, they seem intent on leaving a whole rainbow of hickeys across his throat and he's completely fine with that. They drag their hand down his front and he arcs into it, welcomes the touch, until it closes over his arousal and he  _ groans _ , he can feel their breath hitch in response. He tries to thrust into it and only manages it maybe once or twice, but then Everett's legs slides over his and they practically sit on his thigh and effectively pin his hips down as well.

On the upside, their hand wraps around both of them. When it strokes they moan almost in unison. His wrists tug and twist in their grip, but there's no fight in it, even though it makes them pause and look at him and he shakes his head.

"Keep going,  _ please _ keep going. You'll know if I want you to stop."

Everett's response is a kiss sloppy with want, and then they have to break away when their hand starts to move in earnest. They're both moaning loud and unabashed, Everett keeps cursing under their breath, their hand moves faster and faster. He has to give them a few pointers sometimes, tell them to grip a little tighter, twist their hand a little different, but it's so good, so absolutely  _ wonderful _ . He's soaring, flying, he can barely move but his whole body's singing, winding up, building to a finish, he's not even aware of the noise he must be making, and then...!

Everything goes white and he locks up.

All coherent thought ceases for those few precious seconds of nothing but pure bliss.

And then he gasps for air and his arched spine buckles under its weight, completely loose. There's something hot and wet cooling on his stomach and Everett's hand slowing to a halt around both of them.

They're breathing hard. He is too.

His hands are still pinned, but they let go so they can support their weight a little easier. They look down at him through wide pupils and sweat-slicked hair clinging to their forehead, which he strokes at to try and get it back into order. It makes them laugh tiredly.

He gingerly takes their hand, the one stained with white, and brings it to his mouth to lap up the globs stuck to the skin. They just watch. It tastes about the same as he remembers. After he's done Everett chuckles and crawl away, to the adjacent bathroom.

He chuckles. "Was I that bad?" he calls after them, propping himself up on his elbows.

They laugh and throw the wet rag they were undoubtedly bringing to bed at his head instead. "Shut up, you know you weren't. Get yourself clean."

It's the second rag he's had thrown at him in a single day. It must be a record. He wipes the mess off himself and throw it in the general direction of the bathroom while Everett brings the bowl of fruit to bed. They get back to eating in comfortable nudity.

"Why didn't you eat the banana like most people?" he asks after a while.

Everett has the gall to blush. "I didn't want to be  _ too _ obvious."

"You were staring at my lips like you were hypnotized, my dear. You were well past that point."

"Oh. I didn't... realize."

He smiles. "Haven't done this much, I presume?"

"No, not really. You were right before, my looks aren't anything special. I'm just... Serkonan average, really."

"I'd beg to differ." He brushes their hair behind their ear. "Average or not, all Serkonans have a certain  _ flair _ to them for me. And I did mean what I said about your eyes." He rubs his thumb along their cheekbone. "I only wish I could see them in sunlight. They must shine like the most beautiful gemstones."

Everett blushes again and looks away. "Thanks."

They finish devouring the remainder of the fruit in silence. Afterward he stretches lazily across the bed, but Everett gets up and starts gathering and putting on their clothes.

"You won't stay?"

"I can't." They sound genuinely sorrowful. "I wish, but..." Their voice trails off and they sigh. "I can't. I could find you here again though?" Hope seeps into their tone.

He smiles and sits up. "My business will likely take a few days to conclude. Yes, we can meet again, though I can't promise we'll ever see each other after I leave for Dunwall. If you're alright with that, I see no reason why we can't do this again."

Everett manages a smirk and starts buttoning his shirt. "Yeah, that's alright. I'd like that. Been a while for me too, it'll be nice. About the same time?"

"Sure. I'll try to get word to you if I'm held up for some reason."

"Alright." They briefly sit on the bed and jam their boots back on. "You're leaving after me, right?"

"I am."

"Then I'll pay for the room on the way out. How much is it?"

"Five coin."

"Alright." They share a quick kiss, but Everett lingers close afterward. "Do I get your name now?"

"Unlikely."

They snort. "Of course. See you tomorrow." They get up and leave.

He basks in the comfort of the bed for a little while longer before he, too, gathers and dons his clothes. A brief stop in the bathroom confirms that, yes, his neck is absolutely covered in marks and he finds himself running his hands over them. Being the Marked one for a change is so very nice.

He grabs the empty bowl and makes his way down to the main floor of the pub, back into the pinks and reds. He confirms with Veronica that everything has been paid for and adds an extra two coin to cover any possible washing, then bids her farewell.

The night air outside feels pleasantly cool on his warmed skin.


	7. An Apology Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider experiences the dreaded Hangover.

By the time he leaves the Belly of the Whale he's still feeling warm and comfy with the heat of alcohol and Everett's body soaking his skin.

It's dark and he's thoroughly relaxed as he walks. The night air is cool, but not uncomfortable. He realizes his coat is hanging open, but doesn't bother closing it. His hands keep creeping up to his neck to rub over the marks left on the skin. There's a very dull ache when he presses on them that he welcomes. The memory of what caused them is fresh, but no less cherished for it, he can't keep the smile off his face the whole way to the safehouse. Stars fill the sky, the air smells of salt, and he couldn't be happier.

Not even the look of the safehouse can put a damper on his good mood. It's inside one of the buildings that have been condemned due to a bloodfly infestation and it definitely looks the part. There are nest clinging to the windows themselves, glowing a dull red in the darkness of night. He gives them a wide berth and sneaks to the edge of the building, through a narrow passage along the side and down an opening broken through the wall and into a cellar. He hears buzzing above, but there are no nests here and, according to Billie's instructions, he shouldn't come close to any if he just follows the stairs, ducks under the long table on the second floor, and climbs through a break in the ceiling of the bathroom that's been covered by a trapdoor.

The directions guide him easily through. He comes up to the attic a bit dusty, but no worse for wear. There's a pair of bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a threadbare couch, three piled mattresses passing for a bed, a corner piled with boxes both empty and not, and somewhat strangely, a desk and pinboard occupying most of one of the two walls that aren't the sloped inside of the roof. A handful of whale oil lamps are scattered about to provide some measure of warmth.

There's also Billie, sitting on the couch, staring at him with a book in her hands that she quickly snaps shut around the pen she was using to write in it. "Finally decided to show up, have you?" She squints. Her Eye sparks with cyan for a moment when she uses Foresight, no doubt to get a closer look at him. "Are those  _ hickeys? _ "

He couldn't have kept the smile off his face even if he wanted to. "Why yes, they are. Thank you for noticing." He walks past her, to where he left his things lying against the side of the desk. He lets his coat slide off his shoulders as he goes.

He feels her gaze follow him. "Is that...  _ wine _ I'm smelling?"

"Also correct." He bends down and drapes his coat over his backpack.

There's a weary sigh behind him. "What in the Void have you been doing? Besides wasting money on...  _ hats _ ." She gives the accessory resting on the desk a look akin to disgust. It only becomes more pronounced when he plucks it up, twirls it, and puts it on.

"What? You think it doesn't suit me?"

"That's not the point and you know it." She sets her journal aside. "That money was supposed to take you to Dunwall. If you've been expecting me to fund all of your..." Her eyes very pointedly rake across his bruised throat. "... _ escapades _ , you're sorely mistaken."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Of course not. And for your information, my  _ escapades _ were nothing more than a calm evening with a bottle of wine, some fruit, pleasant music, and some  _ very _ willing company." He practically saunters over to the couch and plops down on it opposite Billie, one arm splayed across the back and almost touching her shoulder, legs folded over one another. He still has the hat on. "You should try it sometime, Lurk. A warm body against your own does wonders to ease off tensions."

She scoffs. "I'll pass. Not like I can anymore with this thing in my head." She picks up her journal again and flips it back to the unfinished page she was on earlier. "Just don't make a habit out of this. We can't afford it. Literally."

"Don't worry about it." He waves his hand again. "I'll get us some more funds tomorrow, and maybe even a few new toys for myself." His head turns to his belongings, the plain sword propped up against the desk and the simple dagger he knows is still hidden in the sleeve of his coat. "I'd like a gun like yours. And perhaps new blades. Those are serviceable enough, but they hardly go with my outfit."

He hears a groan from the other end of the couch and smiles to himself. " _ Why _ did I think you'd lose the ego?" Billie mutters to herself. "Just don't get yourself killed. Or arrested. Mostly the second." A pause. "And I have your forgeries under way. You'll need to come with me tomorrow, they need a silvergraph of your face to finish one of them. We should have them all in hand in four days, a week at the latest."

"Very well." He watches her writing in the journal with a comfortable laziness still clinging to his bones. She has her Arm back on and her Eye in full view, but her red jacket has been tossed onto the makeshift bed in the corner. "Did you manage to get a proper eyepatch made?"

"Yes, but it's not the most comfortable thing. Only for when I strictly need it."

He gives a vague hum.

His hand on the back of the couch is very close to Billie's shoulder and neck.

Her pen is scratching across the paper.

The lights buzz faintly above them.

He reaches over...

Carefully...

And strokes a finger across her nape.

Billie's pen stops moving. Her Eye sparks with cyan. "What do you think you're doing?" Her voice is low in a way he chooses to interpret as uncertain instead of dangerous.

"Well..." He drags out the vowel. His finger toys with the back of her collar. "You just said you can't do what I did because of your Eye, but... I already know about it, don't I?"

That brings both her eyes to him and, while a part of him wants to recoil away from the obsidian one, he holds his ground and his lazy smile.

"You can't be serious."

He just props his head up on his hand, still smiling.

"I'm more than  _ double _ your age."

He hums through a chuckle. "And I had four thousand years as a God."

"That's not-" Billie stops herself, then sighs. She snaps the journal shut again and jumps to her feet. "The answer is  _ no _ . Now go to sleep, you're drunk."

He leans toward the spot she was just occupying like an overly-spacious cat. "Not nearly as much as an hour ago." He lifts a hand toward her, but she steps out of reach and he lets it drop onto his chest. "Come now, Lurk, I know for a fact you haven't had any action in a  _ very _ long time."

Billie pinches the bridge of her nose. "Do I really have to remind you that I'm not into men. And that my one and only love was Deirdre and  _ no one else? _ "

He huffs. "You're no fun." He sits up laboriously and gets off the couch. "Good night then. I wouldn't stay up too long if I were you, I can't promise I won't have some truly  _ scandalous _ dreams."

He waggles his fingers at her as he goes by on the way to the bed and she's just watching him, speechless, while he pushes her jacket aside, sinks into the creaky mattress, curls up, and drifts off with a smile.

~~*~~

Morning comes with a stab of agony straight into the center of his hungover brain. He groans and buries his face into the mattress, then immediately changes his mind and rolls over instead. He tries to go back to sleep but his head pounds with the beat of his heart and his mouth feels like a desert. He's forced to sit up and look around through bleary eyes.

Billie is asleep, bundled up in her bedroll on the couch. The attic looks the same. The whale oil lamps aren't on, neither are the bare bulbs. What woke him was the thinnest ray of sunrise worming its way under the roof and landing directly in his eyes. He glares at the tiny hole where the thin beam of light comes from. His hair is probably a mess. He doesn't feel like tidying it.

He rubs his eyes to have a less blurry view of the world. He notices the trap he'd already suspected to be there, a string pulled taut over the trapdoor and connected to a firing mechanism ready to shoot. He ignores it for now, in favor of quietly padding over to his backpack and digging his water canteen out of it. It's still almost full, he takes several large gulps from it before he's satisfied. He tries to be as quiet as possible so as to not rouse Billie, he knows she sleeps light.

He dons his coat and hat, affixes his sword to his hip, writes a quick note to Billie saying he'll be back soon in case she wakes up, carefully disarms the tripwire, and leaves through the trapdoor.

He doesn't go far. There's a bakery that opens bright an early only a few streets away, he buys a freshly-out-of-the-oven pastry chock-full of cinnamon and sugar and a large cup of coffee. He eats and drinks while watching the sunrise and the handful of other patrons that come by at this early hour. The coffee helps with the hangover a little more, and the sugary dough helps balance the awful bitterness of the coffee.

He buys another pastry, something salty involving cheese mixed in the dough, and a small tin of coffee grounds before he leaves. The search for a simple sieve and a small portable heating device that runs on whale oil takes far longer than it should, but he finds both eventually and makes his way back to the safehouse.

Billie is still asleep, thankfully. She must've stayed up late. And there aren't any rogue beams of sunlight assaulting her face.

He sets about preparing the coffee. When the first wave of smell billows out from where he pours the boiling water, Billie stirs and wakes. Her Eye flares to life before its flesh counterpart opens. "What are you doing?"

"Coffee." He finishes pouring and lets it slowly filter through the wet powder. "And I brought some breakfast. I know you prefer salt over sweet." He holds out the baked thing, he forgets the name. Some traditional Serkonan recipe.

Billie looks at it confused. She rubs her eye, sits up still in her bedroll, bundles the thing around her waist so she can take the pastry off his hand. She's still staring at it, then at him while he pours more steaming water on the coffee grounds. "Why?"

He sets the heated pot aside. "I feel I owe you an apology for yesterday. Last night in particular. I shouldn't have offered something like that to you, knowing your history. And..." His eyes drift to his hat, resting on the bed he'd claimed the night prior. "Well, I don't regret my purchases, but I won't spend quite so extravagantly again unless we have the funds for it. You have my word."

She keeps staring. She takes an experimental bite out of the pastry and the knit in her brow eases somewhat.

Silence falls between them while he finishes preparing the coffee and hands it to her. She takes a sip. Her face remains neutral. "Not the best. But not bad for a first attempt." She sets the cup aside and kicks the bedroll off her legs, rolls it up messily and tosses it toward where her bag lies on top of the desk. It falls short. Billie turns her attention to him.

"Listen. I was hoping for something different, I won't lie. But you're, what, sixteen in that body?"

"Eighteen."

"Exactly. You're just a kid. I hoped you would, but I didn't  _ expect _ you to act like an adult just because you were a God before. Those are two different things. I'll admit I didn't imagine how far you'd be able to go in just one day, but you didn't get hurt. You didn't go broke. You didn't hurt anyone else."

Her tone suggests she wants confirmation on the last one, and he shakes his head.

"It could've been a lot worse. And you were still drunk last night. We'll call it a tentative success for your first day alone amidst civilization. Just have a sip of elixir to clear up those bruises and we'll call it even."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You're not the first I've had to turn down, you probably won't be the last."

His lips tug into a smile. "Probably not."

A more comfortable quiet falls between them while he clears out everything he used for the coffee and Billie gets ready for the day. He gets to see her new eyepatch: a large concave diamond shape with rounded corners, colored a plain deep red to match the center stripe of her jacket. It's probably more attention-grabbing than she would've liked, but the shape is necessary in order to hide the entirety of her obsidian Eye.

"You mentioned getting more coin last night," she starts with little prompting, halfway through securing the empty sleeve around her elbow. "Was that just the wine talking? You need to have a silvergraph taken."

"I remember. And no, I do have an idea for making us a tidy stash of coin."

She seems incredulous. "Do I  _ want _ to know what it is?"

"Likely not, but..." He does a purposeful little twist and flair while checking the state of his sword, before sliding it into its scabbard with a satisfying click.

"I intend to go hunting for blood amber."


	8. Honey Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider sets his plan into motion.

The silvergraph takes entirely too long to be taken, mostly because he insists on smiling, and the man behind the machine insists he shouldn't. These are  _ official _ pictures, he says, you don't smile for those,  _ ever _ .

They leave the studio not too soon, in his opinion. It's barely two hours past sunrise, there's still plenty of daylight ahead, though he suspects he'll be seeing it through grimy windows very soon.

"Are you sure you don't want to accompany me?" he asks Billie for what is probably the third time since their talk in the safehouse.

"I'm not." She's fussing with her empty sleeve, he steps close to help secure it a little more firmly. "But I have my own contracts to take care of for some quick coin. I don't like that you're taking this risk, but I trust you to not get yourself killed over some blood amber." She inspect his work and nods. "You could help  _ me _ , you still know things, right? There might be information gathering jobs you could do without ever getting your hands dirty."

"Tempting, but unlikely. I'll have a look tomorrow depending on how well I do today." He straightens her collar, it always seems to bring a smile to her lips, then gives her a flourished wave as he turns on his heel. "Wish me luck!"

"Don't get killed!" she calls at his retreating back.

He's traveling light. His pack and hat are in the safehouse, though he has his gloves on today, the lighter pair. His pockets are lined with a much smaller stack of coin than last morning, and a few other things that might help with the day's activities. His dagger is in his sleeve and his sword at his hip, though he hopes to have enough coin to replace both by the end of the day.

His mind goes to Corvo's trusty old folding blade and he smiles. Now  _ that _ would be perfect, but he'll settle for something that just looks a little nicer if he can afford it.

He wanders for a time, until his ears pick up on what he's looking for: hushed, gruff voices. Apparently having an argument and failing to stay quiet about it, if the words being thrown back and forth are any indication. He makes his way closer.

"...old you to grab more'a th' Orbon, ya fuckin' choffer! We can't even get through half a house with this!"

"I brought as much as I could, alright? I'm already gettin' in trouble with this much, I can't just leave th' boss with no Orbon to sell!"

"You're a fuckin' idiot, Phil."

"No, I'm tellin' you, this high-proof stuff is just as good! My buddy Lemmy swears by it, she's been usin' it for ages."

"Yeah,  _ right _ . More like she uses it to get people like us drunk and runs off with their hard-earned amber. Probably fucks'em too."

"You shut your mouth!"

A fight breaks out. The three men are huddled together in an alley, a large box behind them with several bottles and empty rucksacks. The third one that spoke less just stands back while Phil and the other grab at each other like dogs fighting over a bone. He watches, leaning casually against the wall near the mouth of the alley, while Phil completely  _ pummels _ the other man into the dirt. Phil isn't even the burliest of the three, that's the third guy not getting involved, but it seems like defending the honor of this Lemmy woman is quite important to him. Phil also has what looks to be a very old, barely functional voltaic gun strapped to his arm.

Within less than a minute the one who isn't Phil is begging for mercy (sort of) and Phil himself is looking pleased with the blood on his fists. "That'll teach ya. Keep talking shit like that and I'm shovin' your head up a nest keeper's ass."

"Fuck you," the other one growls back, gingerly feeling at his bloodied face. "You fuckin' broke my nose, you fuck."

He'd better intervene before they start killing each other.

"Gentlemen!"

His arms spread wide as he walks into the alley. Three pairs of eyes land on him, one slightly hazier than the others. He raises his hands level with his shoulders as he approaches as a show of peace.

"Th' fuck d'you want, skinny?" the burliest one barks at him.

"The same thing as you three fine gentlemen," he replies calmly, stopping at a safe distance and keeping his hands visible. "I couldn't help but overhear your earlier argument, and I must side with... Phil here?"

The man eyes him suspiciously. "It's Felis." The one with the broken nose snorts and sends a spray of blood across his already bloody front. Felis ignores him.

"Felis, of course. Well, you're right in saying that a high-enough proof is just as good an immolator of bloodflies as the Orbon variety. I've had some experience dealing with this kind of thing, I stand by Felis' statement. And please," he raises his hands back up to shoulder level when it looks like the burliest one is about to interrupt. "I'd just like to propose a partnership. We can stand to make quite the profit if we work together. You clearly have the firepower needed, and I happen to know several buildings in the city that could do with a bit of fire."

He (slowly) brings one hand into his coat and pulls out a grenade that he holds in his splayed palm. "I have my own means of eliminating the nests. With my help you'll be able to cover a lot more ground, and in the end we sell the amber to a few different black market shops and split the gains. I'll take only a fifth of the profits, consider it your extra payment for your cooperation. You stand to make a tidy sum, each of you, I guarantee. As do I, of course." He slips the grenade back into the pocket inside his coat.

He lowers his hands and clasps them together. "What do you say, gentlemen? Partners?"

The three men exchange looks. The one with the broken nose is still dripping a steady trail of blood onto his vest. Felis looks somewhat amenable, and the third is scrutinizing his looks with an incredulous air.

" _ You _ been blood amber huntin', really?" the third one huffs. "Fuckin' princely-lookin' ass like you? Yeah,  _ right _ ."

He nods calmly. "I have indeed, my friend. I have fallen on hard times recently I'm afraid, a bout of too much wine and not enough sense. I'm sure you understand. I don't even have thirty coin to my name, it really is embarrassing." The one with the broken nose scoffs, but he goes on. "So, desperate times call for desperate measures. I really am sorry to intrude on your plans, but I think the potential profits will speak for themselves. Oh, and here."

He steps forward, reaching into his coat again. The big one tenses, then looks almost confused when he pulls out a full vial of elixir and holds it out to the one covered in his own blood. "I can't have one of my partners in less than tip-top condition, can I? About a third of the vial should be enough to get that nose back in order, my friend, we might need the rest later."

The man takes the vial slowly. He takes a close look at it, shakes it. The other two watch him pop the cap and sip, then down two large gulps and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's real," he grunts, hand on his nose to try to realign it before the effect of the elixir can take hold.

It's a risky maneuver, giving away an entire vial of elixir, but he should be able to afford a replacement by the end of the day.

Felis and the other share a look.

"He's Otto," Felis says, pointing to the big one. "And the asshole there's Breno."

"Fuck y-you!" Breno's voice catches when his nose cracks loudly as it knits back together. He groans through the pain and wipes at his bloodied face with his sleeve. "Shit, fuckin' hurts. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, my friend."

"What's  _ yer _ name, kid?" Otto asks.

He smiles. "I believe you're already christened me, yes?"

Breno snorts again. "What, y'wanna be called Skinny?"

"No reason why not. Now, gentlemen, I believe we ought to get going. If you could just distribute your resources?"

One more look shared between the trio, but he can tell they're already hooked even before they give each other a nod and start handing out the bottles and sacks. He takes one of the latter and four of the former, clipping each to his hips in the always-convenient straps he finds exactly where he needs. He takes special care to keep one particular bottle with him, however.

Whether through bad luck or just not reading the label, one of the bottles of rum Felis brought isn't a high-enough proof. He makes a point of taking it for himself.

Laden with alcohol and the empty sacks, the unlikely quartet sets out. The sun is low in the sky, some ships still preparing to leave port.

He leads them to the first stop in his plan, a smaller home that has been quarantined for only a handful of months. A warm-up, he likes to think of it. There aren't many nests inside, and those that have taken root are on the smaller side. He actually takes out a fair portion of the nests by himself with just his sword, they're small and isolated enough that he feels confident doing it. And the more bottles they save now, the more nests they can take out later. Felis even compliments him on his swordsmanship. With his guidance, the trio of Otto, Felis and Breno become a surprisingly effective unit.

They bag up a few chunks of blood amber and some other abandoned belongings and move on. They also collect an extra bottle of Orbon from a previous failed looter.

The next stop is a home of similar size, but which has been condemned for quite a bit longer. The nests are bigger, and a few rooms have two of them growing on opposite walls, too far to be hit with a single bottle, but close enough that any loud noise between them will lead both swarms to the assailant. They have to sidestep a bloated corpse lying in the middle of the hallway, covered in bloodfly bites but not yet turned into a nest. The going is slower here. He insists that they take the time to use a bottle to burn the nest on one side of the room, wait for the bloodflies from the other nest to calm down, and then let him handle the second nest with his sword. He takes a few bites himself, the flesh around each puncture burns horribly and flushes an angry red, but he pushes past it.

The reward is bigger. More chunks of amber, larger and of a finer red, and they find a safe with the combination already half-solved. A few guesses later and they're hauling three ingots and some carved ivory into their sacks. They add more bottles from previous looters to their arsenal.

The third stop is one he has to choose carefully, taking into consideration their current stock of flammable alcohol. He has a specific building he wants to end the day's adventure in, but they also have to make it there with enough ammo to clear the place almost completely.

He decides to lead them to a former manor, big and open and thoroughly looted, but with plenty of clustered nests to take care of. Each toss of a bottle often burns through two, sometimes three large nests at a time. He uses two grenades from his stash to clear out some doorways choked by more nests. The noise attracts a nest keeper from somewhere deep within the manor and he signals the others to stop and stay out of sight. He sheathes his sword and ducks low to the ground. He creeps through a side door and under a nest, dangerously close, the swarm around it flares like winged embers and buzzes loudly in warning, but he moves past it and behind a tipped-over desk.

There's an old empty bottle lying on the ground. He takes it and weighs it in his hand. He peeks over the desk, and throws. The bottle crashes loud against the foot of the nest he passed by and the swarm lights up again, buzzing furiously around the broken shards.

The nest keeper hobbles in through the door and looks around vaguely. They meander over to where the bottle broke, seemingly uncaring of the glass shards that cut into their feet. Once they're nice and close to the nest, he unhooks one of the bottles from his hip and throws it.

Glass shatters, fire roars, and an ear-splitting screech fills the air.

But just as quickly it stops. The nest keeper's voice peters out and they collapse into a charred heap, twitching and spasming until they stop completely. The nest is nothing but ash.

He bags the amber left behind and goes back to his faithful trio.

They clear out the rest of the manor without much trouble. The sun has peaked and is moving west by the time they come back out. Felis slaps him on the back with a laugh and announces that "Food's on me, boys! We're gonna be fuckin'  _ rich! _ "

His first instinct is to decline, but he needs to keep their spirits up, so he agrees. Felis drags them not to any sort of restaurant, but to a food cart standing just across the street from an Overseer outpost. He has to admit the food is actually pretty damn good, skewers of bits of various things, he finds one that blends a bit of fruit in with the cubed meats that is surprisingly tasty. Being so close to Overseers puts him a little on edge, though. He keeps his back to the building the whole time.

He also tallies their supplies in the meantime. They still have a decent number of flammable bottles, and also the one that  _ won't _ catch fire still on his hip. He has two other elixirs ready to go should things go south, plus two more grenades. Comparing that with how much they're likely to need in the place he wants to take them next... they  _ should _ have enough for him to be able to pull off the last part of his plan.

Once they're all full and satisfied and are walking along, Felis with an arm over his shoulders, he makes the offer: one more hit for the day that could easily double their earnings. One more place that's been closed off for well over a year. A whole apartment complex, several stories, multiple homes, countless little nooks and crannies where they'll undoubtedly find more than just blood amber stashed away.

Brimming with confidence, the trio agrees. He leads them to the place. Massive tarps hang around the building, large letters painted across the cheap canvas. He brings them underneath the tarp and in through a window. Their progress is slow, partly due to the amount of nests and the tight quarters forcing them to be quiet, partly because they're all searching everywhere for hidden valuables. They clear out the ground floor and move up.

The second floor holds a nasty surprise, not one but two separate nest keepers wandering around. The trick from earlier works on one, but the other finds Breno and goes straight for the man and he has to jump in and drive his sword into the keeper's back, then slash the resulting swarm away. He wins himself several more bites for his trouble, as does Breno, but the man at least has the decency to share the remainder of the elixir with him.

The third floor also has a nest keeper, but they're alone and are, thankfully, easily dispatched. He uses one of his grenades to clear a particularly tight cluster of three nests, but keeps the last one for later. And finally, the fourth floor only holds a handful of lone nests that he makes quick work of with his blade.

In the end they don't quite double their potential earnings, but the rucksacks are certainly much heavier than when they first arrived.

Otto, Felis and Breno are all congratulating each other. And him as well, though he's careful to look around as they make their way down the stairs. He has an empty bottle strapped to his hip and the non-flammable one and he's listening for something.

When they reach the ground floor still talking pretty loud, he hears it and raises a hand. The trio goes quiet after a moment.

There's some buzzing coming from a room that he  _ purposefully _ made them overlook earlier.

"I think we missed one," he says instead.

Felis takes the lead this time. They creep up to the door and carefully push it open.

There's a massive cluster of nests inside, at least four of them all stacked on top of each other, a low buzz emanating from them even without the angry glow of warning from the surrounding bloodflies. He can almost  _ feel _ the three men tense up ahead of him.

"Shit, I'm all outta bottles," Felis whispers.

"Me too," Breno mutters.

"Here," he says, plucking the non-flammable one from his hip and handing it to Felis before Otto finds the only other high-proof bottle still left.

"Thanks. Y'think just one's gonna be enough?"

"They're all touching each other. The fire should spread easily."

"Right." Felis looks back into the room and angles his throw.

He unclips the empty bottle from his hip and holds it low to the ground.

The bottle of rum flies through the air and shatters.

A single moment of silence follows, before the air is filled with furious buzzing.

"Shit, where's th' fire?" Breno hisses.

"We better get outta here," Felis breathes hurriedly and starts to move.

He rolls the empty bottle forward, right between Otto's legs and under Felis' foot, then ducks into the nearest room, behind an upturned dresser, before he sees the result.

There's a noise of shattering glass and a scream. More screams. Buzzing so loud it almost drowns out everything else. More glass shattering and the rush of fire, but the buzzing diminishes only slightly. Shouts, yells, the sound of rushing feet. A heavy, muffled impact. The noise of bloodflies being sliced that quickly stops. A clang of metal. Screams. A second impact. The shadow of someone moving past the door to his hiding place and the buzzing that grows momentarily louder as the swarm follows. A few last screams. And a third muffled impact.

Once he's sure that the swarm is distracted, he risks creeping up to the door and peeking his head out.

Felis fell where he stood, broken shards of glass digging into his foot through the sole of his shoe. Breno isn't far from him, his rusted old sword fallen off to the side. Otto tried to run but didn't make it to the window, probably also the one who threw the last actually flammable bottle they had. He can't see any sign of fire in the corridor, however, so he can only hope the bottle managed to hit the nests and burn them away.

The bloodflies are still out and about, happily picking at each corpse, so he retreats back into the relative safety behind the dresser and settles down to wait. They'll drain the bodies of fluids and grow full and sluggish in time, he'll have his chance to collect his prize. He just has to be patient.

After four thousand years of watching from the Void, patience is the one thing he's good at, if nothing else.

He smiles to himself and idly sips at a vial of elixir while he waits.


	9. Phantom Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider is silently judged.

Hours later, the trapdoor to the attic safehouse swings open and he climbs through. Billie's at her desk, but she spins around to see him climbing up into view. She seems torn between amusement and exasperation at the sight of his freshly-bruised neck. He doesn't smell of wine, at least, so she can't complain.

"Long day?" she asks instead, watching him carefully pull a pair of gloves out of an inside pocket with a scowl. He'll need to wash them, they're covered in dust and stained with blood.

"And a very productive one," he replies as he tosses the gloves aside and reaches for a pouch hanging from his hip. "No need to worry about our funds, thank you very much." He plops it down on the desk with a heavy metallic noise.

Her surprise is palpable. "How much?"

"Plenty to last me well into my stay in Dunwall.  _ And _ ..." He rolls back one of his sleeves to reveal a voltaic gun strapped to his arm. "I'll need a few lessons in marksmanship, if you don't mind."

She's staring at the gun with barely-concealed disbelief. "How in the  _ Void _ could you afford that with  _ blood amber? _ "

"I couldn't, technically." He starts carefully undoing the straps that hold the gun steady. "I had some help on my hunt, but I'm afraid my companions suffered a most  _ tragic _ demise, and to the victor go the spoils, no?" He takes the gun off his arm and sets it down next to his small fortune. "One of them had an old, broken thing that the shopkeep agreed to swap for a functional one. I also helped him identify a few bonecharms he hadn't gotten around to yet for a bonus. I bought one." He pulls out the little humming cylinder of whale bone from a pocket. "A little extra stamina." He puts it away again, then takes off his coat and drapes it over his pack.

She just keeps watching him with an increasingly indecipherable look. "Anything else I should know?"

He stows the bag of coin into a side pocket of his back, next to the gun. "Not particularly. The rest were just basic supplies, a few elixirs, ammo for the gun, things like that." He rubs the hickeys on his throat. "Oh, and Everett was  _ very _ pleased with my new bonecharm."

Billie's face twists. "Okay, I neither need nor  _ want _ to know about that. Keep it to yourself in the future."

He shrugs. "Your loss."

He plucks the dirty gloves off the couch and climbs back down through the trapdoor to wash them. He wonders vaguely about what Billie's been writing in her journal. It's still a little strange, not being able to just instantly know about things he wants to know, but he's getting used to it. He also gives himself a quick wash before climbing back up to sit on the couch, where Billie joins him shortly after. She's also shed her jacket.

"Any luck with your contracts?"

"For the most part. A guard might have caught a glimpse of me, but I dealt with him." She's kneading her fingers into where her arm ends abruptly, on a mess of scars immediately after the joint. She has phantom pains there sometimes, he knows that. The Black Shard Arm is strapped to her elbow, but it doesn't seem to help. The dead fingers twitch slightly while she tries to ease the ache.

He offer to take the limb in his hands. "If you'd like?"

Billie considers his offer for a moment and accepts it. He carefully unbuckles the Arm and sets it aside. He rolls up her sleeve to expose the knotted scar underneath. His pale fingers start to work at the tense muscle and the toughened skin. She just watches.

"Do you know of one Melia Nettlerow?" Billie asks after a while.

He rakes his wealth of Void-given knowledge and comes up positive. "I do."

"How much do you know?"

"A fair amount, I'd say. Why?"

Billie groans when he presses a particularly sore spot. He rolls his thumb against it until it eases and she breathes a little easier. "Someone's looking for blackmail material on her, anything they can get. 300 coin."

He hums. "They won't find much. She's one of the rare nobles that knows how to behave. But I see your point. Do you have the contract?"

"It's folded up in my jacket."

"I'll have a look in the morning. Any others you've found like that?"

She thinks for a moment. "Someone wants a combination to a safe. 150 coin. Would that be something you know?"

"It might be, depending on whose safe it is. I'll give it a look as well."

Billie nods.

He massages the end of her shortened limb some more and lets her pull it back. "Thanks." She tugs the sleeve over it again, but lets it hang loose and doesn't bother putting the Arm back on. "We could both use some sleep."

"Agreed. I'll see you in the morning."

He slides off the couch and onto his feet in a smooth motion to move over to the piled mattresses he's claimed as his bed. He sits on the edge, shucks off his boots, and lies back with a stretch and a sigh.

"You killed them, didn't you?"

Billie's voice reaches him while he has his eyes closed. He doesn't move. "I may have caused one of them to step on broken glass while in the near vicinity of a very large nest. And I may have handed them a bottle of alcohol that I knew wouldn't make it catch fire. A truly tragic ending to three brave entrepreneurs." He waves a dismissive hand in her general direction. "Now quiet please. I need my sleep."

There's a few seconds of silence where he just feels her Eye on him, but he can hardly bring himself to worry when he's already drowsy and comfortable. He just rolls onto his side, then remembers the rogue beam of sunlight that'd woken him that morning and flips around so his feet are where his head was.

He doesn't look at Billie while he's reorienting himself. After he settles back down and it becomes obvious he's not offering any further comment, the gaze of her Eye finally leaves him and he can relax fully.

He drifts off into dreams full of bright red birds of all manner of sizes. They lead him through a jungle of colors and skeletons hanging by their necks.


	10. Farewell to Billie Lurk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see the woman with the paradox hand one last time. Probably.

Compared to the excitement, for lack of a better word, of blood amber hunting, the next three days pass in relative calm.

A small portion of the morning of the first day is dedicated to the information contracts Billie brought him. He tries to write it all down himself, but his handwriting is little better than a toddler's. He ends up having to tell Billie what to write. He tells her everything he knows about this Melia Nettlerow person, and also about the two possible safe combinations for the other contract. The safe belongs to a slightly paranoid member of a large shipping and trading company, so he happens to know the man tends to alternate between two different codes whenever his paranoia spikes particularly high.

Billie goes out to deliver the information. She comes back with directions to two separate dead drops and an expected time of delivery for the reward, should the information be deemed suitable. The one for the safe code won't be available until after the point he's likely to have left for Dunwall, so she just hands him 150 from her own stash of coins.

After that, Billie decides to stay with him for the rest of the day.

She first walks him through the ins and outs of his new purchase. He had the basics explained to him by the black market salesman, but he listens intently anyway. She's had hers for almost a year, she's familiar with all the peculiarities of the things. She tells him to always keep it unloaded when he's not expecting to use it, since the last thing he needs is for it to go off when he doesn't want it to. He learns just how to twist his arm to release a projectile that's already locked in, and how to flex his wrist in just the right way to make it fire.

They practice shots against an old forgotten mannequin Billie finds in one of the rooms of the house below them. It's strange, trying to aim with the heel of his hand when he fires, but he just about gets the hang of it. He's no expert, but he should be able to reliably hit targets if they're not too far away. Billie also insists that he should be on the receiving end of one of her stunning shots, so he knows what it's like, and he reluctantly agrees.

When he wakes up several minutes later, with her looming over him rousing him back to life, he very politely tells her to go jump into a Leviathan's gullet and also to never _ever_ even _think_ about doing that to him again.

The heating coil he bought is put to good use when they need to warm up some cans to eat, but otherwise they just trade information. After target practice they go back to fight training, but Billie forgoes blades in favor of showing him how to use his _body_ as a weapon instead. She shows him how to use everything _but_ his fists, stating with confidence that he'll never win a single fight if he expects to do so by force. He's taught to turn his opponent's strength against them instead, how to weave out of the way of attacks and worm his way out of grapples. She even lets him throw her down a few times so he can get a feel for some of the maneuvers, how the other person's weight shifts up and over his frame. Just like with her stunning shot, Billie insists he let her knock him out with a chokehold and she almost does, his vision does dark and full of sparks before she releases him and he sucks in a desperate gasp of air.

When dusk falls over the city he heads out to visit the Belly of the Whale, as is becoming customary for him. Everett's company continues to be a _wonderful_ evening past time. On the way back he takes a detour and collects the dead drop for the contract on the Nettlerow woman.

He goes to sleep a little sore from the earlier wrestling lessons, but satisfied.

The second day finds him going out early. He buys not one, but _four_ empty books like the one Billie uses for her journals, all with plain leather covers; the blue one he'll turn into a journal, but there's also black, grey, and dull red for the other three. He has a few ideas on what he'll put in each one. He also gets a nice-looking black pen with silver accents and two spare vials of ink for it.

The other things he wants to purchase take a little longer to find, but he eventually happens upon a weapons trader that has what he's looking for. His old sword and dagger are cheap and he's not surprised, but the woman agrees to give him a small discount on whatever he buys. He browses through her collection. There's a ridiculously expensive gilded falchion covered in gold and inlaid with gems that he holds longingly, but puts back down. He chooses a simple but elegant dagger with a leaf-shaped blade and a black stone inlaid on the pommel. For the sword, he goes with a serviceable rapier. The guard is made to resemble something like wind or flowing water in a way that's very pleasing to the eye.

Despite his new acquisitions, he spends almost the entire rest of the day working not with his sword, but with his new pen. His handwriting is _abysmal_. He practices a signature first, Billie warned him he'll need one to have his forged documents finished. Once he's happy with that, he moves on to general text. He chronicles the past week and change into the pages of his new journal with as much detail as he can muster. He also decides to write about his former life, the one from before he was bound to the Void. As a last-minute decision, he decides to add a somewhat messy sketch of his old Mark to the inside of the front cover.

After he's done with his journal he tucks it into his bag, then spreads the other three across the desk. Gray, black, and blood-red covers. He looks from one to the other, thinking, combing through his wealth of knowledge, trying to come up with a way to categorize it all into three distinct themes. After a while he writes 'Dunwall' inside the black cover, 'Gristol' in the gray, and 'Cults' in the red.

These three books aren't journals. He's going to make them into catalogues for all the Void-given knowledge crammed into his head. He hasn't had any trouble sorting through it so far, but he can't guarantee that'll stay true forever.

He spends the rest of the day filling in the pages, focusing mostly on the black book for Dunwall. Near dusk Billie comes up through the trapdoor and hands him another information contract, but the name on the paper doesn't ring too many bells. He knows a few things, but definitely not enough to fulfill the contract. He writes them down anyway and hands them to Billie, then heads out for another visit to the Belly of the Whale.

He almost doesn't come back to the safehouse to sleep. Everett has somehow found a way to keep his pet occupied and offers to stay the night, but he declines. "Tomorrow," he promises.

He sleeps in the safehouse, but he dreams that he accepted Everett's offer and wakes feeling somewhat lonely when that turns out to be just a fantasy.

The third day is focused on final preparations with the forgeries and his coming trip to Dunwall. Billie takes him to a room in the back of a shop so he can make samples of his signature and handwriting with a few specific phrases. They receive some finished documents, and are assured that the rest will be ready before the end of the day. He buys an upgrade to his gun that lets him shoot just about anything that'll fit in the barrel and also has some amount of metal in it.

He roams the port and asks around, until he's pointed to a relatively large transport vessel. Imperial Shipping is emblazoned in large blocky letters along the side of the hull. He finds the captain. The man is thankfully amenable to taking non-working passengers, he apparently does go semi-regularly. The ship leaves tomorrow, it'll be taking the long way around Serkonos and making a stop in each city, Cullero included, before making port on Dunwall. It'll be a month out at sea, and while he would've preferred less he also suspects he won't get a better chance than this, so he makes arrangements to board before noon the following day. If nothing else, it'll be nice to get a taste of each major Serkonan city. He _is_ supposed to be traveling, after all.

In the afternoon he finds himself idling outside the main hub for the Karnaca Gazette writing and printing. He's not allowed in, not without an appointment or the documents he doesn't have yet, but he manages to convince one of the attendants to bring a note to Everett.

They come down to meet him a few minutes later. Everett's face lights up when they lock eyes and they hurry to give him a hug. He's wearing the hat, he sees their eyes go up to it for a moment.

"What are you _doing_ here? Your note just said you wanted to talk, what is it? I can't stay long, I have to get back to work."

"That's fine," he says, brushing some of Everett's beautiful wavy hair behind their ear. "I'd just like to let you know in advance that our time together must come to an end. I've secured passage on a ship that leaves port early tomorrow. Tonight will be our last, I'm afraid."

Everett's smile fades. "Oh. Already?"

"Unfortunately, yes. You've showed me a wonderful time, my dear, and I'd hate to ruin the mood tonight with this kind of news."

"Well... fuck, alright. I guess I'll have to make it special, then. Is that why you didn't want to stay the night yesterday?"

"Yes. I figured it was only fitting to leave it for tonight."

"Right, yeah." Everett smiles again. "I can't wait. Same time, same place, I'm assuming?"

"Of course." He dips his head low and leans in close. "And I'll get us a bottle of that Tyvian red, just like the first time."

"Sounds good." Everett hesitates, glancing back toward the entrance of the building, but then they close the distance and give him a kiss full of promises for the coming night. "I'll see you then," they murmur before pulling away and walking back into the office building.

He watches them go with a smile.

The next few hours go by like a dream. He collects the last few pieces of forged documents as the sun sinks westward. He gathers his belongings at the safehouse and prepares his bag for the following day, making sure everything's accounted for.

"Well..." He looks everything over one last time. "I suppose this might be goodbye." Billie's looking at him in a way he can't decipher when he turns to her. "I can't be certain we'll see each other after tonight, I won't be sleeping here."

"You won't?"

He shakes his head. "Everett wants to make our last night special. I can hardly say no."

"Right. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He grins. "Oh, I'm afraid we've been doing a _lot_ of things you'd _never_ do."

Billie makes a face, but just watches while he checks that his voltaic gun is safe one last time. When he straightens himself he doesn't even have time to speak before Billie pulls him into a tight hug.

He can't help a laugh, even it he does return the gesture. "What's this? Getting emotional for the old Void God?"

"Shut up." She gives him a pat on the back and steps away. "You're alright, kid. Not as good as I'd hoped, but definitely not as bad as I'd feared. Just don't start killing people for money and you'll be fine."

"I never intended to. What about you? What are _you_ going to do now?"

Billie looks around the room. He sees her eyes pause on the empty pinboard above the desk. "I'm not sure," she admits after a moment. She seems lost.

He takes her hands into his. "Billie, listen to me." He forces himself to endure the gaze of her Eye when she looks at him.

"Remember what I told you. You are closer to godhood than _any_ human has ever come. Even Delilah could not reach such heights through all her years of pushing at the boundaries of the Void. _Yes_ , really," he says emphatically in response to her incredulous expression. "You don't realize the enormity of what you did when you took that smallest piece of lingering energy from the Eye of the Dead God. Even _I_ could not fathom what the Dead God could do, or why it perished and now lies buried within the bowels of Shindaerey Peak."

He lifts her Black Shard Arm slightly. He touches her cheek, just under her Silver of the Eye, and dares looking into the miniature inferno raging within the black stone. He flinches away almost immediately, but stands his ground and focuses on her other eye.

"With this Arm, this Eye, that faintest thread of power from the Dead God, you are... something _truly_ unique, Billie Lurk. All you have to do is find your own limits and expand them, and I daresay you could do _anything_ you set your mind to. I'm not saying this because I believe you _should_ use this, you are perfectly within your right to ignore it, but I would never leave you feeling aimless after everything you've done for me. Take this as a suggestion from a friend, Billie, nothing more. There are no words in any human language to express the full extent of my gratitude. This is the _least_ I can do."

He steps back and smiles. "And if you prefer a more... _mundane_ reason to test your supernatural abilities, the Whalers are still in Dunwall and will no doubt continue to struggle without the use of the Arcane Bond."

She suddenly looks elsewhere, toward the pinboard but with her eyes unfocused. "I can't go back to them. Not after-"

"Billie."

She doesn't look at him.

He places both hands on her shoulders. " _Billie_."

She turns her head begrudgingly.

"I took your arm and eye, Billie. I _maimed_ you. And yet you still found it in yourself to forgive me, to give me a new _life_. If you could do that, then they will be able to see beyond your betrayal, given enough time. Never forget that Daud spared you and gave you a second chance, much like you did for me. That counts for a lot."

Billie is staring, _glaring_ at him, daring, almost _wanting_ him to be wrong, and her Eye, her Void-damned _Eye_ feels like it's flaying him alive, like a physical heat is coming off the roiling spark within and scorching his skin right off his bones.

He tries not to let it show, he really does, but Billie soon turns away with her expression unchanged. "I'll... think about it," she says simply.

The sigh that leaves him is partly out of relief. "That is all I could ever hope for."

He draws her into another hug and she doesn't complain. He squeezes her shoulder when she pulls away, still not looking at him. "Take care of yourself, Lurk. I hope to see you again someday."

She nods vaguely. "You too." She looks at him, but it's a sideways glance that doesn't put the gaze of her Eye on him. "Does the Eye really bother you that much?"

"It is... uncomfortable, yes. Proximity makes it worse. Your focus does as well, though Foresight doesn't seem to bother me. I don't fully understand it myself."

Billie gives a hum, then a slight shake of the head and a pat on his shoulder. "Good luck out there, kid. Have fun."

He grins. "I most certainly will." He hefts his back into his shoulder, pulls the trapdoor open, and-

"Why?"

Her single-word question catches him off-guard. He turns around to find her staring at her dead hand, then at him. She raises it, fingers splayed out. "Why did you do this in the first place? Why give me the tools I needed to kill you? Can Gods be suicidal?"

He chuckles. "No. I was literally incapable of such a complex state of mind. The simple explanation is that, in much the same way I was once made, I knew I was doomed to be _un_ made by human hands. At the time, the thought of it being someone who was unaware of how thoroughly tangled with the Void they had become was... amusing."

Billie's looking at her dead hand again. "So you'd just... accepted your fate?"

"One can grow accustomed to anything after four thousand years."

She looks like she's trying to glare a hole straight through the obsidian palm, but then she shakes her head and folds her arms. She studies him for a moment and smiles to herself. "What are you still doing here? You have a date."

He laughs. "I do indeed." He climbs halfway down the steps and gives her one final nod. "Farewell."

And then he's gone.

The walk to the Belly of the Whale is oddly melancholic. He hopes Billie will find a new purpose. He knows she doesn't deal with inaction well. But as he rounds the corner and sees the pub's sign come into view, he tries to push it out of his mind. She's a grown woman and, arguably, a demigoddess. She'll figure it out.

He nods to the guard on the way in. Everett is already there, barely able to sit still in their usual booth. He slides into the seat next to them, calls for a bottle of wine, and forgets about everything that isn't the warm body next to his.

Tonight will be a night to remember.


	11. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you, my dear reader, get an extra long chapter of sweet, sweet Smut.

By the time he and Everett make it all the way up the stairs, they're already glued to him and seem adamant that he suddenly doesn't need to breathe somehow. He surfaces from the hungry kiss with a gasp, and he barely has time to draw breath before he's spending it all on moans when they assault his neck with lips and teeth and tongue. They're not even in the room yet, and he's already well on his way to full mast inside his pants.

"Oh, by the Void, you really a-ah! Are  _ insatiable _ tonight, my dear. I wonder what co-oooh,  _ Void... _ What could've bro-ought this on?"

He feels them smile against his neck. "Maybe I'm trying to make you stay with the power of sex," they practically  _ purr _ against his ear, it sends a wonderful shiver down his spine even as he laughs.

Their hands keep roaming his body, opening his coat, slipping under his shirt to feel his skin, and when one of them suddenly palms at his erection he can't help a slight yelp. "Everett, please!" He has to grab their wrist and pull their hand away. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's not get arrested, yes?"

They have a downright  _ wicked _ grin on their face and  _ oh _ , the things it does to him, even  _ he's _ surprised by the powerful tingle that goes down his aching length. They don't even say anything, they just grab him by the hand and pull him straight into their rented room, the door gets  _ slammed _ shut by his weight being thrown against it, and then Everett's on him again and he can hardly catch his breath and  _ Void _ it is just  _ incredible _ . They're kissing him and biting his lip and raking their nails across his front and it's almost too much to keep track of.

He doesn't even realize they've opened his pants until their fingers close tight around his length and he makes a noise that, if asked, he would adamantly deny. Then, just as suddenly as they were grinding against Everett is gone. He has a few seconds to just breathe, head tipped back against the door, coat hanging open and shirt completely askew and messy. A few moans drip from his lips, Everett's hand is still around him, moving slowly back and forth. Not just their hand, but their  _ breath _ , so hot they must be  _ inches _ away from him, if even that much.

His head finally tips forward and he's welcomed by the sight of Everett kneeling before him, hand pumping slow and gentle around him. It really is the most beautiful sight. His own hand drifts forward to comb through their hair. Something about both of them still being fully clothed just makes it all the better.

"You're perfect just like this, my dear Everett. If only I could stay and see this everyda-a-ah!"

He's cut off by their tongue swirling around his head, then their lips clasping around him to create a vacuum. He quickly loses himself again because Everett knows, the cheating bastard  _ knows _ that using their mouth always makes him an utter mess of noises and it shows. He's moaning and keening, calling for the Void, for Everett's name, wordless vowel-like sounds forming when he can't muster the breath to make anything else. It's the heat, that fever-hot temperature enveloping every inch of his erection more than anything else that has him building to a crescendo fast, too fast, until he's trying desperately to stave off his orgasm only to fail and spill straight into Everett's mouth.

After the world comes back into focus he can't help a slight whine at the little kiss and suck Everett gives his overly-sensitive tip. He can barely stand, it's only the door at his back keeping him upright. His hair is definitely a mess. He's panting  _ hard _ . And yet Everett has the  _ audacity _ , the absolute  _ gall _ to just tuck him back into his pants, zip up and button the garment, tug his shirt a little straighter, like they haven't just made him lose his  _ mind _ in record time.

" _ You _ ," he breathes, "are just pure evil."

They just laugh. They brush at his fringe to try and straighten it a little. They give him a kiss, no doubt just to make him taste himself on their tongue, the  _ heathen _ .

"Now you owe me an orgasm," Everett says when they pull back. "Come on."

Once he feels steady enough that he won't just fall on his face, he allows himself to be led to the bed, his bag dragging along the ground behind him dangling off his fist. He sits and Everett kneels again, though this time just to take his boots off. They shed their own footwear and join him atop the mattress. Thankfully their manic energy seems to have dissipated. They kiss him calmly, it's almost chaste if it weren't for his taste still lingering on their lips. They run their fingers through his hair and start carefully, methodically, undoing each button on his shirt without looking, lips still locked with his.

About halfway down he stops their hand. "Everett my dear, wait." He brushes a thumb along their cheekbone. "I do so love the way you worship me, but let me do it for you this time. Please, lie down. I want to see you."

They seem surprised, but pleasantly so. "Alright." They climb past him and flop down onto their back.

He takes a moment to shed his coat, finish unbuttoning his shirt, take it off and set it aside. There's red lines across his front from where Everett's nail scrapped at his pale skin. He keeps his pants for now. It'll get uncomfortable, but he wants a certain image for what he's going to do. He doesn't just move close, he  _ crawls _ toward Everett on all fours over the bed and the way they look at him, it tells him he made the right choice. He maneuvers their legs easily, so he can come to sit between them with their knees on his thighs.

"Your hand, my dear. Both of them if you please."

They hold out their arms. He takes them by the wrists and wills them to sit up and they end up inches from his face, but he doesn't close the distance. When he places their hands off to the sides, not touching him, it's an unspoken agreement that they won't reach out to him unless he says so.

He starts by ghosting his fingers across their jaw and over their lips, around the curve of their neck. They're watching him, those beautiful brown eyes trying to meet his green, but he doesn't return the stare. His focus is on his fingers, on keeping his touch torturously light while still being very much present and impossible to ignore as he trace the very edge of their collar, then takes hold of the first button of their shirt.

He undoes it.

Then the second button.

Then the third.

And the fourth.

And fifth.

Six.

Seven.

Seven buttons.

They're so close he can feel it on his face when Everett's breath hitches as he pulls their shirt open. He can just barely make out their hands clenching against the black velvet of the covers in his peripheral vision, but they keep playing along, they don't try to touch him.

Their breath catches a lot more noticeably when his fingers touch their skin and start delicately roaming along their front. He catalogues the breadth of their belly, their stomach. He counts their ribs. He traces the outline of each of their pectorals and his fingers join together in the middle, to trail up their sternum and land on the tips of their collar bones. He splays out his fingertips, just the tips, across their shoulders and uses the actual length of the digits to push the garment back, down their arms, until he can take it and toss it aside.

When he presses his full palm on their chest Everett  _ moans _ . He barely has to push to get them to lie back down. "Fuck dude, I-"

He shushes them with a finger across the lips. His eye finally meet theirs and there's disbelief in those brown irises, but he just pulls his hand back without a word and focuses on his work again. His fingers trail down their front, still always with that maddening, feather-light touch. He traces the seam of their hips and along the edge of their pants. He finds the button on the front.

After several seconds, it pops open.

Each tooth of the zipper that opens is audible.

Everett groans and even  _ squirms _ , just a little, when his fingers very gently slip under the rough fabric to feel the softer one underneath. They're already hard, he can tell by the tension in their underwear, but he doesn't touch them. His fingers travel down their sides instead and they automatically raise their hips, to let him grab both their pants and underwear and pull them down, just enough that the clothes won't be caught under their weight when they settle back down. Still with that same deliberate slowness he slides Everett's pants off. He slides it up their thighs, past their knees, along their shins and has to stop a moment to work it around their ankles before he can toss them aside as well.

Everett is finally left fully in the nude while he's still clothed from the waist down. They're practically  _ shivering _ with barely-contained excitement and arousal, he can see the pleading in their eyes, but they don't beg, they don't make a  _ sound _ , because he told them not to.

His hands settle on their knees. He starts tracing little circles on their skin just above their kneecaps. The circles widen in a slow spiral to go around the outline of the bone, then his fingers start walking down along the top of Everett's thighs, slowly, gradually drawing closer to the achingly hard arousal standing tall and wanting. This time he's not looking at his hands. His eyes are on Everett's to let him see the desperation, the want, the  _ need _ as his hands come to settle fully on their inner thighs, almost framing their crotch while still not quite touching them. Their breath wavers.

For maybe a full second he doesn't move. He just holds their gaze.

Then he looks down, so he can guide a single finger onto the base of their length, drag it up the underside, and end with the pad pressing on the cleft of their urethra where a bead of moisture clings to his skin.

Everett doesn't just moan, they  _ whimper _ .

He twirls his finger around the head once. Twice. And drags it down the top of the shaft again. It shifts to the side and is joined by his other hand. Two fingers trail up either side of the member to join at the very tip, and as they do the rest of his fingers splay out all along their erection like a narrow cage. One of his hands pulls away, briefly, to let the other curl lovingly around the shaft, before going back in to work around the head again.

The whole time Everett is making the most beautiful noises of desperation he's ever heard. They're quickly falling back into the usual string of moans, curses, whimpers and nameless calls for him, but then suddenly they cut themself off and pull his hands away.

"Wait, wait... fuck, just... there's something I wanna do, I got the oil for it and everything. It's not fucking, I promise, but it's close. Please."

He tilts his head at their request. Even with all his knowledge he can't seem to figure out what Everett could possibly need oil for besides fucking him, but he trusts them so he nods. "Alright. Lead on, then."

They quickly get to work. He trades places with them, his back hits the covers and they strip him down to nothing swiftly, but then they move away to fuss at the fabric of his discarded pants. They return quickly and position themself between his legs with a vial of oil in hand, the kind he recognizes as being prepared specifically for this kind of thing. It comes in pretty, tiny little bottles with a flat bottom and a smooth curved top, with a little cork made of rubber. The actual oil is tinted a gentle pink and smells vaguely floral when Everett pops it open and pours a little bit into their hand. They squeeze the cork back in and set the vial aside.

He gets to watch Everett touch themself, framed by his own thighs and knees. They spread the oil between their hands and all along their length quickly but expertly, then bring their slicked palms to the inside of his thighs and spread the oil on his skin as well. They easily maneuver his legs, joining them together, propping them up on their shoulder, wrapping an arm around his knees. They shuffle a bit, getting into position, moving his legs around as they do to get the angle they want. Their free hand wraps briefly around their own arousal and slips between his thighs to make sure everything is nice and slick. Seemingly satisfied, Everett moves forward and he feels their length against the underside of his thighs for just a moment, before it slides easily between his well-oiled skin.

A deep, guttural groan drips from Everett's lips. Their whole body  _ shivers _ . He can see the head of their erection poking out from between his thighs, he reaches down and grazes his fingers over it. They start to move, moaning, panting, a quiet noise ringing out whenever their length peeks into view then slips away again. They're hugging his legs, squeezing them together like a lifeline as they start to move faster, harder, louder, the repeated smacking of flesh against flesh quickly filling the room along with their loud moans and ragged cries. Everett is squeezing his legs almost painfully, he's  _ definitely _ going to have some hand-shaped bruises in the morning, but he honestly doesn't care.

He could lie back and watch this all day. The way Everett's hair falls over their face, heavy with sweat. The way their face twists and their body moves in the throes of pleasure. The way their voice climbs an octave higher and syllables stops making sense as they near the peak. The way their calls grow more and more desperate, almost pleading, until a heavy shudder rattles their frame and they climax, scalding strings of white painting his front and getting almost lost against the background of his pale skin.

After a little while they relax and pull back. Their grip loosens. Everett looks down at him through glassy eyes and a lazy smile.

"That was a wonderful show, my dear, thank you," he says.

It makes them give a breath of a laugh. They let him move his legs back onto the bed, so they can lean down and kiss him. They fetch a wet towel from the bathroom and clean him. Everett tries to wipe off all the oil on his thighs and their hands, but just gives up and throws the towel onto the floor somewhere. They take a moment to grab the vial of oil and leave it safely out of the way on the nightstand, and then they're shoving at him and tugging on the covers to get him under them.

Before long they're both cozy and warm under the soft velvety black, tangled together in a comfortable cuddle. Everett kisses his forehead, then his lips. He reaches over and clicks the light off.

"Goodnight, my dear Everett. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah. Goodnight."

~~*~~

At first, when his bleary mind sees nothing but hazy blue around him, he wonders vaguely when he started needing sleep while in the Void.

The thing that woke him makes itself quickly known, however: an insistent poking on one of his buttcheeks.

He rubs at his eyes and takes stock of the situation.

He can barely move. During the night Everett has migrated to be the big spoon and the dead weight of their arms around him is more than his sleep-addled muscles can hope to push aside. There's a little bit of sunlight filtering through the heavy curtain, but the room is still pleasantly dark. He can feel Everett's breath on his nape, their body molded to his back, their legs partially tangled with his. They have a very present erection pressed against his backside and every now and then their hips twitch slightly, but they are thoroughly asleep.

"Everett," he calls softly, trying to reach back and brush their hair. "Everett, my dear, wake up."

They make a vague noise in their throat but don't move. Their arousal is still poking him. He slips a hand behind him to try and wrap it around the shaft, give it a few strokes, and that at least draws a more defined sort of moan from them.

" _ Everett _ ."

They groan and squeeze their eyes. He stops his ministrations. He's only about half-twisted back to barely be able to look at their face, he hasn't moved his lower half. Everett blinks a few times before their eyes focus on him.

"Good morning, my dear. It seems your body would like one last farewell gift before I depart."

They take stock of their own surroundings for a moment. "Seems like it."

Rather than acting on it, however, they just pull their arms tighter around him. They nuzzle against his nape and breathe in deep. They press closer to his back, causing their erection to nestle right in between his buttcheeks and it sends a deliciously warm shiver sparking up his spine. It surfaces as a small moan.

He feels them smile against the back of his neck. "Shame you don't wanna get fucked," they murmur dreamily.

By the Void, he can't even describe what goes through him with that whisper, Everett's voice thick with sleep and comfort so close to his ear, their arms holding him flush to their front, their arousal hot and willing against his backside. And the heat trapped under the covers, the heat  _ they _ give off in an endless supply that is easily the thing that gets to him the most. He's been wanting to save this particular milestone of his brand new human existence for someone else, but...

" _ I do _ ," he says in a breathless rush before he can stop himself.

He almost feels Everett's drowsy mind grind to a halt, then start back up. They pull back slightly. "But you can't?"

"I never said that." He twists to look at them again. "I haven't done this is a  _ very _ long time, Everett. But I trust you." He does his best to cup their cheek with a hand. "You said you wanted to make this special. There's no better way."

"You're sure?"

" _ Yes _ ."

They stare at him, trying to find some hint of hesitation in his eyes. When they see none, they nod and give him a quick kiss. "Alright."

The vial of oil is plucked from the bedside table and brought to Everett's hands. Neither of them moves from where they lay cuddling under the blankets, though Everett does nudge the covers down a little to make it easier to move their arms. They pop the cork and pour some oil on their palm, put the cork back, leave the vial on the bed and rub their hands together. They bring their arms under the covers, trailing their fingers down his front until they wrap a hand around his length.

They're quiet. So is he. He moans, but it's more air than sound. Neither wants to disturb the peace of early morning. Everett strokes and palms him slowly, firm yet gentle, working him up to full mast without any rush. Trapped between their hands and their erection, he grinds into their touch and against their crotch in a sinuous motion, voice low like it too is lost in the soft velvet.

Everett stops. Their hands come back up for a fresh layer of oil, which they take particular care to apply all around their fingers. They reach back down and shift their hips, to give themself enough room to slide a single finger along the cleft of his rear.

He can't help but jump slightly at the first contact.

Everett stops immediately, but he shakes his head. "It's okay. Keep going," he whispers urgently.

They bring their other hand around first, to grab his length and keep stroking it slow and steady, a gentle trickle of pleasure to help ease his tension. Their finger touches his entrance again. The digit moves carefully, gently, drawing wide circles around it, sometimes pulling in closer to move away again, sliding smoothly across the wrinkled skin thanks to the oil. He relaxes slowly as his body grows used to the proximity, to the slippery feel, to the direct touch. Their finger stops, right on the very opening, and applies a little bit of pressure. Then another little bit. And again. And  _ again _ . Until that lightest push is enough to get inside.

A shiver rattles up his frame and clogs his throat around a delayed exhale.

Always with that rhythmic stroking around his length, Everett starts moving their finger in and out. It's only up to the first joint of the digit at first, but he's acclimating quickly to the sensation. He wasn't lying when he said it'd been a long time since his last experience with this; what he neglected to say is that by 'long time' he means 'four thousand years'. Still, his body is human, and young, and pliable, and he remembers well enough the privileges he used to enjoy at the temple, before his untimely demise.

It doesn't take long until Everett can sink their whole finger into him and start to touch a second one around his entrance. He encourages them with soft, quiet noises and by grinding his hips into their hand, both the one behind and the one in front. He feels their breath getting hot and heavy against his nape and upper back, he can tell how badly they want to just skip straight to the end, but their restraint holds true.

Everett adds a second finger. Their other hand rolls their thumb over the head of his length and he  _ moans _ . They pump their digits into him, just a little bit deeper each time, until the two fingers also bottom out. They slide the full length of their digits in and out of him a few times and he expects them to move on, to get to the main event, as it were, but they don't. He feels them add a  _ third _ finger instead.

Oh  _ Void _ , he can hardly believe it. He's tempted, so very tempted to tell Everett to just hurry up and do it already, to assure them that he's as ready as he'll ever be, but they're holding him so tenderly, breathing against his neck, purposefully keeping their hips back while they stretch him with utmost gentleness, he doesn't have the heart to do it. He just lays there, caught in their embrace, soaking in their affection, letting them work him open until finally,  _ finally _ , they withdraw both their hands.

One last pause to drip a little bit more oil into their palm and apply it to themself, and he at long last feels their arousal against his warmed, loosened entrance. Everett's hand settles on his hip and holds him still, while their other is keeping them steady. They apply a bit of pressure, just testing how much he resists if at all, and he's on the verge of begging when they  _ finally _ push inside and oh, by the Void, it's just  _ perfect _ . He groans loud and shameless.

There's no pain. Not even the slightest sting. No uncomfortable stretching, no nothing. Everett worked him up to perfection and it is just the most amazing feeling in the  _ world _ .

They wrap their arms around him again and he can only clutch at the edge of the covers. They start to move, slow, careful, but they don't have to be, he grinds back into them eagerly and hears them grunt against his nape. Their control is slipping and he wants it to,  _ Void _ how he wants them to just let loose and take him, make him see stars, make him not want to  _ move _ ever again.

Everett maintains that slow, careful grind until he bottoms out fully without a noise of complaint from him, and then they stop again. "Good?" they breathe on his nape. They sound tense.

He nods emphatically. "Yes,  _ Void _ yes, Everett,  _ please _ . I'm not made of glass, I won't break, just..."

His voice trails off, but he feels them nod. They shift their hold, one arm wrapping lower around his waist, the other closing tight across his ribs. Their hand splays across his upper chest and frames his neck with their thumb and forefinger. Their grip is tight, he couldn't get out of it even if he wanted to.

Everett pulls their hips back, almost all the way out, then  _ rams _ forward with a quiet smack against his backside and it's like a tiny little explosion goes off somewhere inside him. The angle is perfect, they hit that tight bundle of nerves inside him  _ exactly _ and it sends a wave of pure bliss across his whole frame, heated sparks erupting across his skin and punching a near-shout out his throat. They're not immune either, he catches the broken curse that leaves their lips and it just makes everything so much better.

They quickly settle into a rhythm. Everett holds him tight against their front and he's thankful for it because he seems incapable of  _ not _ squirming while they continue to push inside him over and over again, always deep, always hard, and just a little bit faster each time. Their breathing is harsh on his ear, quiet moans and curses that only he can hear while his own noises are entirely too loud and messy in the lull of early morning but  _ Void _ , he just does not  _ care _ . He's clutching at handfuls of the covers and the world just doesn't matter,  _ nothing _ matters beyond the blazing heat of Everett's body around and  _ inside _ him, their arms locked around him, their broken voice on his nape. Their every thrust is like a spike of pleasure that shoots up his spine straight into his brain and he couldn't even  _ hope _ to hold a single coherent thought in his head and he  _ loves _ it.

He doesn't even realize it when his orgasm creeps up on him. It just  _ hits _ , and he  _ screams _ and his body locks down and Everett grunts and gives a ragged cry and squeezes him and there's an extra heat low in his gut that is  _ definitely _ more than just their length inside him.

They both end up as a tangle of sweaty, boneless limbs.

For a while, they just rest. He grounds himself on Everett's breath still bathing his back, on their arms now loose around him but pleasantly heavy. His heart feels like it's hammering against the inside of his ribs, but it slowly settles back into a less frenetic pace. He tries to throw the covers off them and only succeeds in shoving the velvet down to their waist; Everett is still inside him and he doesn't want to disturb them.

They stir anyway. They nuzzle into his nape and kiss the sweat off the base of his neck. "Good?"

He breathes out a laugh. "Yes. Absolutely perfect."

Everett hums their approval. They pull out. He feels strangely empty without them inside. He finishes kicking the rest of the covers off, only to reveal the smear of white on the inside of the black velvet and the slightly more shiny spots where the oil is glued to the fabric.

Everett sits up propped on one arm and glares at the stains. "Veronica's not going to be happy."

He sits as well and waves his hand. "I'll pay her off." He cups their cheek in his hand and draws them into a gentle kiss. "That was wonderful, my dear Everett. You were amazing."

They have the  _ gall _ to blush, even after everything they've done, but they also smile warmly. "As were you." They look into his eyes, but a moment later they're giggling to themself. " _ Now _ do I get to learn your name? Or are you seriously just going to sail off into the sunset like a mysterious stranger?"

He makes a show of humming thoughtfully, even stroking his chin a little. "Well, it couldn't  _ possibly _ be at sunset, I have till noon to board my ship," he muses exaggeratedly, them lets his hand drop. "But as for your question, ask me again later. I might be feeling more amenable after I've had a wash."

"Right, yeah. We should probably do that. And also vacate the room before Veronica comes barging in and throws us out."

He chuckles. "Agreed."


	12. Last Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider buys himself a gift.

It's only about two hours after sunrise when he and Everett leave the Belly of the Whale. Veronica was very...  _ unhappy _ , to put it mildly, about finding a mess on their rented bed, but a few extra coin put her mind at ease.

They walk along the street in comfortable silence. He has his hat on to shield against the morning sun, but also because he just enjoys wearing it. Everett sticks very close to his side and even threads their fingers through his, which he doesn't mind at all. This time he didn't bother taking a sip of elixir in the morning, so the bruises on his neck are still fresh and in plain view. He has no particular destination in mind, he has until noon to board his ship, but Everett seems to be heading somewhere and he lets them lead.

They bring him to their home. It's not far from their place of work. They stop at the door and turn to him, something wistful in their gaze. "You're really not staying?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear. Our time together was wonderful, I assure you, but I cannot stay. My heart already belongs to someone else."

A sad smile tugs at the corners of their mouth. "In Dunwall?"

"Yes."

"I figured as much." They heave a sigh full of longing. "Well, you're right, I did have a great time. Would you come inside? There's something I want to give you."

"Of course."

They lead him through the door and up a flight of stairs to their apartment. It's a little small, but not cramped. Sparse on decorations, but clean and serviceable. They take a small book resting on a table by the door, scribble something across an empty page, tear it out, fold it up, and hand it to him. "Even if you won't stay, at least send me a letter. If nothing else so I can know you made it safely to Dunwall. That's my address."

He tucks it into an inside pocket of his coat. "Of course. You've been nothing short of perfect, my dear Everett, it's the least I can do. The trip itself will take about a month, so expect my correspondence some time after that."

"Alright." They take the pen again and go to a calendar affixed to the wall. They flip to the next month and mark the rough date he's supposed to make port in Dunwall.

"When do you start work?"

Everett looks at a clock on a nearby table. "I still have some time. I managed to talk my supervisor into letting me come in a little later today. Why?"

"I think I'd like your opinion on something. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me somewhere?"

"No, not at all."

They head into the street again, this time with him taking the lead. He brings Everett all the way to the Wild Exotics shop, the first one he entered when he and Billie first arrived in Karnaca and he was finally alone to wander. He lets Everett hold his hat when they enter. Ichabod is busy, so he just browses the racks until he finds it.

The dress. The beautiful green dress that fades into gentle teal with encrusted little gems, like a Pandyssian jungle over a clear water pond. Everett's eyes widen at it, but he just puts a finger to his lips, takes it off the rack, drapes it over his arm, then makes his way over to where Ichabod is just about done dealing with another customer.

The tailor sees him and seems to quake, very subtly, in his boots. The other customers are gently but firmly ushered out of the store. The closed sign goes up and the blinds come down, and then Ichabod is all forced smiles as he approaches. "Young sir, welcome, welcome! And you have a friend with you today! What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"Ichabod, my old friend. On my first visit here my funds were rather limited, I'm sure you can imagine. But I saw this wonderful piece and I was hoping to try it on. If you can have it fitted for me before noon, I'd like to buy it."

Ichabod nods a little too enthusiastically, looking between him and Everett with uncertainty. "Of course, of course! Please, right this way, young sir!"

Ichabod leads them to the back and pulls a privacy screen around him, to let him shed his normal clothes and put on the dress. Everett helps him and he definitely notices the way their eyes scan up and down his frame. He comes out barefoot, nothing but the dress and his underwear, and stands on a very small stool to at himself in the mirror.

It really does suit him as much as he'd hoped. The green brings out his eyes wonderfully. The dress has a sort of choker piece that clasps around his neck from which the fabric swoops down to cover his chest and meet at the back, leaving the whole area around his shoulder blades exposed. The way the dark vivid green fades smoothly into the duller, lighter teal around the legs is beautiful, and when he pivots his hips to make the fabric sway from side to side the little gems worked into the thread flash and sparkle like a bubbling stream. It really is a work of art. Everett is standing behind him and to the side, just watching in utter disbelief.

There's too much fabric, of course, it was made to fit around an actual bust on a female body, but that's why Ichabod is here.

"Young sir, this piece also comes with a pair of arm-length gloves. Would you like to try those on as well?" the tailor asks, hovering a little farther away than Everett on his other side.

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind, Ichabod."

"Right away, young sir, just a moment!" He hurries away and leaves the pair alone.

Everett steps close as though hypnotized. He brushes a hand over the fabric on his hips. "Fuck, dude, you look..."

"Yes?"

"Just...  _ amazing _ . Like seriously, I didn't think I could find you any hotter but you managed it somehow. The black suits you fine, but  _ this _ ..." Their eyes stare at him through the mirror. "Fuck, you could fit into the Boyle party like this."

He hums, stroking along the length of the soft fabric down his front. "Perhaps."

Ichabod returns and Everett politely steps back. "Here they are, young sir! And I've also brought a headpiece that I think will complete the look quite nicely."

The gloves are a very delicate fabric, the same color as the light teal-blue around the bottom half of the dress. They reach up to about the middle of his upper arm. They fit well around his arms, but his fingers feel a bit restricted when he moves and clenches them.

The headpiece is one he vaguely remembers seeing out on the shop floor earlier. A delicate headband of green, with a trail of stitching like thin vines wrapping around the left side and a cluster of fabric cut and layered to look like fanned leaves. In the center sits a stylized flower, also in fabric, colored with various shades of red, orange and yellow in a way that resembles sunset colors. There's also a fluffy white feather that comes out from under the flower and points up and backward. A stark contrast to the overall green and blue palette of the dress and gloves, but one that he thinks he likes.

He turns his head this way and that to see the effect of the feather moving around, but he can't get his mind off the damn gloves. "Ichabod, this all looks lovely, really, but I'm afraid you'll have to remove the hand sections of these gloves. Leave just a triangle on the back, like this." He traces the shape on the back of one of his hands and hooks the tip of the triangle around his middle finger. "Just do that as well when you're fitting the dress, yes?"

"Of course, young sir, of course! Nothing but the best!" Ichabod pulls out a tape and starts taking his measurements and scribbling them into a small notepad. When done the tailor gently requests the dress back, and he has to duck behind the privacy screen to take it off and put his normal clothes back on. Ichabod takes the dress and garment and folds them neatly. "Come back in two hours' time, young sir, and I will have it all ready and packaged for you, no worries!"

"Thank you, my dear Ichabod. Before I go, do you happen to know where I could find some footwear to go with that dress?"

"Footwear?" The tailor thinks to himself. "Your best bet is probably going to be the Pebbled Cobbler, down the street and to the right. You can't miss it. They have a wide variety of colors, many of my customers have found the perfect shoe for their outfits in that store. Just mention my name, young sir, that should help you get exactly what you need!"

"Very well. Thank you again, Ichabod."

The tailor gives an almost genuine smile, then bustles away to start working on his dress. He just gathers his bag and coat and hat and makes his way outside, with Everett following close behind.

"Was it just me or was he scared of you?" they say when the door to the shop closes.

"I have friends who can be very...  _ persuasive _ , and that is all you need to know."

Everett raises an eyebrow. "Right. I'll just add that to the list of mysteries that seem to surround you."

"You do that."

With two hours to spare, he takes his time finding the Pebbled Cobbler, browsing the colorful shoes on display, trying on a few models and walking around in them. He finds a pair of plain flats that works perfectly. They're an elegant dark green color, tipped with some fine silver decorations that'll go with the little gems in the dress perfectly. Ichabod's name wins him a small discount when it's time to pay for the shoes, which is nice.

The remainder of the time is just spent enjoying Everett's company. They wander around, talk, watch the people of Karnaca go about their business. He has to tug them into an alley at one point to avoid a small group of patrolling Overseers, which does take some deflecting and vague excuses to explain away, but the morning is otherwise uneventful.

When they return to the Wild Exotics, it's a little early. The 'closed' sign is still on the door, but he pushes inside anyway and goes straight to the back room. Predictably, he finds Ichabod hard at work, giving one of the gloves the final touches necessary. He gives the doorframe a few knocks to announce his presence.

The tailor jumps and looks up frantically. "Ah, young sir, welcome back! Please, just a few more minutes and I'll be finished. The dress has already been fitted, if you'd like to try it on?"

"I would, Ichabod, thank you."

A quick stop behind the privacy screen later, and he's looking himself in the mirror, with both his new shoes and dress and the headpiece on. The dress fits perfectly now, not the smallest bit of fabric forming any excess folds or weird shapes. The shoes match perfectly. The flower on the headband adds a bit of contrast for a bit of tasteful flair, and when Ichabod brings the newly-trimmed gloves over and he dons them, the outfit is complete.

He twirls in place, making the dress fan out and sparkle beautifully around him, and stops facing Everett. "What do you think?"

They are thoroughly hypnotized once more. "Gorgeous. Just... fuck, you're  _ beautiful _ ."

"Thank you."

Everett suddenly rushes up to him, catches him in a tight hug, and kisses him fiercely and it's all he can do to reciprocate the gesture. When they break away with a gasp, they don't let go. "I wanna peel you out of this thing so bad, you know that right?" they whisper in a heated voice.

He grins and runs a thumb along their cheekbone. "Careful, my dear. I haven't paid for these yet."

" _ Tease _ ." They release him begrudgingly and step back.

Ichabod is looking everywhere but in their general direction.

"Well, my dear Ichabod, I'll be taking all three pieces, and I'd like a proper box for each of them, if you'd be so kind," he calls to the tailor who quickly snaps to attention.

"Oh, yes, of course, young sir!"

A few minutes later he's back in his usual outfit and feeling quite pleased with himself. Ichabod emerges from the back of the shop with two boxes, one containing the dress and another for the headband and gloves together. He hands over the coin, plus the usual extra for the man's silence, and heads out with Everett always close behind.

The mood between them seems to fall as they approach the docks. The smell of the sea fills the air.

The ship looms into view, Imperial Shipping emblazoned along its side. They stops in the shadow of one of its towering chimneys.

His back is to the sea.

"So, this is it, then," Everett says, glaring at the ship like they want to make it sink with their gaze alone.

He brings a hand to their cheek. "I'll send word when I reach Dunwall. I promise." He gives them a kiss. They lean into it, willing it to last longer, trapping him in a hug, but eventually he has to pull away. "May the Leviathans watch over you, my dear Everett," he whispers while they're still close.

It makes them laugh mirthlessly. "Sure, whatever you say. You be safe too."

They release him and step back, into the sunlight. He was right, their eyes look absolutely stunning like this. Their hand clings to his, wanting, longing, until he has to break the contact.

"Goodbye, my dear."

He turns and boards the ship.


	13. One, Two, Three, Dunwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider hears the whales.

Sea travel is, simply put,  _ boring _ .

An entire month of nothing but the same waves, the same ship, the same crew, the same small room to sleep in. He falls into the habit of spending his free time writing in his journal and his other books, cataloguing his knowledge, though he'll often do so in a different place of the ship each time. He ends up finding a few peaceful spots that he prefers. A corner of the deck away from the milling crew. A ledge next to the main chimney that he has to climb to reach. A little alcove near the kitchens, rarely used.

There are some benefits to traveling by sea. It's not all bad. Sometimes, at night, he hears the singing of the Leviathans somewhere deep below the ship. They never breach the surface within view, they've learned to avoid the waters that tremble with the thrum of ship engines. But he can hear their distant song through the metal of the hull and the miles of ocean between them. He stays up for hours just listening, copying their voices into his journal, documenting their unfathomable speech to each other. It's soothing in a way he can't describe.

His entire existence was whale song for four thousand years. It's like coming home. It makes his heart ache for the Void, the old Void that he used to know with its shifting, endless blue and the fragments of different realities caught like living silvergraphs in the invisible ebb and flow of everything. One night, when he risks going to sleep with their song in his ears he can almost convince himself that the blue Void he dreams of is the real one and not the warped, wounded version left behind by Delilah.

A bigger distraction than the Leviathans are the semi-regular stops at each major city of Serkonos. They all resemble Karnaca to some extent, but each has its own particular flavor of Serkonan culture and he also chronicles that in his journal.

Saggunto is the first stop. A city whose skyline is dominated by the great wooden bridges spanning across the many wide canals that cut deep into the heart of the city, like blood vessels feeding its hungry core. Small-enough vessels can sail right up to the center of the city, its hub of small trading, and many fisherman do just that, peddling the day's catch from right out of their boats. The city has as many rivers as it has roads, and it is completely feasible to get around in one's own private boat without ever setting foot on cobblestone, though many nobles still prefer their closed carriages. Seagulls are a constant pest over the rooftops and bridges, but the upside is that bloodfly infestations are nearly unheard of. The insects just get snatched right out of the air by the dense flocks, always seeking their next meal in even the smallest morsels.

He stays in the ship throughout the whole stay. The constant racket made by the seagulls very quickly gives him a headache. It's shrill and has absolutely no rhythm to it, the polar opposite of his beloved whale song.

Bastillian is the second stop and, in his mind, his favorite one along the coast of Serkonos. The city itself doesn't actually border the sea, it rises from the center of its isolated peninsula and instead has detached ports all along the coast of its almost private piece of the island. Great semi/automated railways ferry goods to and from the walls of the city and are in a constant state of repair and expansion. Bastillian is a city of workers that, at night, lights up with candles, lanterns, firecrackers, and the biggest and most consistent parties across the Isles. He already knew all this, but getting to experience it for himself on the one night the ship spends docked at port is something else entirely.

He doesn't even remember who he spent the night with. All he knows is he woke with a bad limp that only went away after a big gulp of elixir.

After Bastillian they spend a long while at sea, well over a week of nothing but sailing even after they make it past the somewhat dangerous crossing through the Bastillian Strait, but eventually they arrive at Cullero. His first impression isn't favorable. There are no imposing bridges, no railways, nothing special that jumps out. This is a city whose focus is on being a safe, welcoming place for the nobility to come spend its too many vacations in, and he doesn't much care for it. The homes that look out over the sea are large holiday manors painted in white and sienna and other inoffensive colors. Underneath the ever-present salt in the air, everything smells artificially clean and sterile. The Grand Guard is out in force and even from the deck of the ship, he sees more than one instance of gross abuse of force by the uniformed guards for little more than brief loitering.

He doesn't set foot outside the ship, and he's glad when they leave port.

The last leg of the journey, despite being shorter than the gap between Bastillian and Cullero, seems to drag on endlessly. He only hears the Leviathans once, on the second night away from Cullero. Other than that he has nothing to distract him from his growing anxiety.

He writes in his journal. He writes on his other books, almost feverishly. He completely fills the black one, the one for Dunwall, his destination. He smells and tastes the wind as it changes the further north the ship travels. He watches the northern horizon for signs of land, for anything at all. He starts pulling out the piece of paper with Everett's address and reading it over and over, to the point the creases become worn and fragile and the words are engraved in his brain.

After what feels like an eternity he's tempted to thank everything in the Void when he wakes one morning to find a familiar shape in the horizon.

It's still tiny and far away, but he'd recognize it anywhere.

How long did his Godly gaze stay focused on that wretched city? How much time did he spend absorbing every tiny facet of the intricate web of lies of the Dunwall nobility? How long did he watch while the rat plague swept through the streets, before it was eventually beaten back by his most hated natural philosopher, and another whose mind he had touched but never fully shown himself to?

And how long had his last two Marked lived there, one far more recently than the other?

After he spots it in the horizon, he can't tear himself away. He sits on the deck doing what he usually does to pass the time, scratching the pen across the pages of his books, but his eyes are constantly drawn to the looming silhouette of Dunwall, Capital of the City and Seat of the Throne, as it looms ever closer, like one of his Leviathans breaching the water in slowest motion.

They don't make it to port that same day. They have to lower the anchor and stop just a few miles away from the Kingsparrow Lighthouse, to wait for the tides to turn in their favor.

It's the following morning that sees his ship finally dock into port. He gathers his belongings and dons his hat and fur-lined gloves. He thanks the captain again for the pleasant trip and pays the second half of what he owes, and at long last sets foot on solid land again.

The air smells of smoke, and oil, and human waste. Far above him, the Tower looms large and impenetrable.

He vows to be within its halls before sundown.


	14. Protector and Spymaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider has an audience with the Empress.

Over the years, Dunwall Tower has been made into nothing short of a genuine fortress. Nothing bigger than a rat gets in or out without the Guard knowing about it, and oftentimes even the rats have trouble finding any place small and secluded enough to create their nests. Ventilation shafts are reinforced on both ends, guard patrols are designed to cover every conceivable approach, unnecessary ledges have been removed and external pipes turned internal whenever possible. The only ways in are the waterlock and the main gates, both watched at all hours of the day and night. At the gates, even the lowest commoner can arrange a meeting with the Empress should the reason behind it be deemed worthy of her attention.

That is how he's going to get in.

Reaching the main gates of the Tower is easy, just a matter of navigating through the streets of Dunwall. There are Overseers about, but not many. The Abbey is far from its glory days during the rat plague, and his hat helps shield his face when one of the masked men walks by.

Near the main gate there's a small building meant for filtering all the common folk that come to the Tower seeking an audience with the Empress. He has to stand in line for an infuriatingly long time, and is even held up by the guard that looks over his papers. The problem isn't his documentation or even his looks, but the reason he gives for wanting safe passage into the Tower.

"I'd like to offer my services to Corvo Attano," he says with an air of importance and a flawless Tyvian accent.

The guard looks him up and down with an eyebrow raised. "Right. Well, I'm afraid the position of Royal Concubine hasn't been around for about a hundred years, so..."

The guard starts shuffling his papers back to him, but he stops them and lays a hand on top of theirs on the desk, firm yet gentle. "No no, I don't think you understand, my friend." He leans in close, noting every detail of the guard's face, scouring his brain for all the information he has on them. He grins and lowers his voice so only they can hear. "The bookcase in your bedroom has a secret compartment. It can only be accessed by pressing the panels along the bottom of the shelves in a specific order."

The guard goes pale. Their wide eyes dart around the room.

His smile eases back into something a little more friendly. He releases their hand as he takes his documents back, folds them, and tucks them into a pocket inside his coat. "If you could fit me in the last time slot of today's audience, that would be perfect. Five minutes should be more than enough for your Royal Spymaster to see the value of my skills."

The guard blinks several times and seems to remember to not look suspicious. "Y-yes, of course, I can do that. You'll be scheduled for 17:55 this afternoon. Don't be late." The last part is said mechanically, the same exact phrase they no doubt say to everyone that comes through. The guard fills in a slip of paper, stamps it, and hands it to him. "Don't lose that either," they add.

He slips the ticket into another pocket. "Thank you very much, my friend."

He saunters out into the morning sun and puts his hat back on with a flourish. Only a few more hours to kill, and he'll finally be face to face with his two Marked. Or at least, he hopes he can still call them that.

It would be dangerous to wander the streets of Dunwall like he did in Karnaca. Not only is the Overseer presence much stronger here than in most other cities in the Empire, with the possible exception of Whitecliff, but in spite of that-- or perhaps in response to it-- those who worship his former self tend to be particularly fanatical. He'll be recognized in an instant if he just goes around brazenly showing his face everywhere.

He has to be careful. He refuses to let it all go to waste, right on the cusp of his success.

After a moment to look through his mental map of Dunwall, he sets out. His steps are quick and his head stays down. He makes for the noble district, where the streets are more heavily patrolled but the Overseer presence has been declining in recent years, and his steps take him specifically to a restaurant and cocktail lounge that looks out onto the Wrenhaven. The Nights of Morley is a very well-respected establishment that he knows is frequented only by the most upstanding nobles in Dunwall, and is therefore unlikely to see any frequent clientele that is secretly a worshipper of what he used to be.

The company will be abysmal, if he has any at all, but it's probably the safest place for him to spend several hours in without risking detection.

If nothing else, the service inside the Nights of Morley is swift. He suspects the stronger Tyvian accent he puts on helps with that. He's escorted to a private booth and left to his own devices. He orders a drink light on alcohol and heavy on flavor to sip. When noon comes and goes, he orders some food.

The hours crawl by.

He writes in his journal and the other books. He has more than enough time to make a first draft of Everett's letter, then a second, then a  _ third _ , before he settles on the final version. He assures them of his safe arrival in Dunwall and little else, but he also pens a second letter to Everett.

He writes about his origins on the second sheet of paper. He tells them of his life as a street urchin, then as the prized possession of a temple to the Void. He writes about his death and rebirth as the Outsider, about the thousands of years spent watching reality flow through him like an endless stream. He talks about his eventual second rebirth into the body they became so intimately familiar with. He writes that he doesn't expect them to believe him, and that he's not even sure he'll even send the letter anyway. He ends by apologizing and asking that they burn the paper when they're done reading.

He reads the two letters over again, and simply folds both and slips them into his coat. He'll make sure to send the first one before heading to the Tower, but he'll keep the second to himself. For now, at least.

After he's tired of writing and reading, he starts tearing pages out of the red book, the emptiest of the three, and folding the paper into different origami shapes. He knows it's a popular artform in Tyvia, particularly in the little island that houses the city of Wei-Ghon. He eventually finds himself surrounded by his own miniature Pandyssia of paper. He'll probably throw them all out, but he takes particular care to keep a few of them: one of the better-folded whales; a crow origami where the paper has been black with his pen and he drew little beady eyes on; and a trio of flowers. He puts all five safely in his coat and dumps the rest in the garbage at the first opportunity.

Finally, at long last, the clock strikes five in the afternoon.

He rises from his seat, pays for his overpriced food and drink, and heads out into the cooling air of dusk. He stops by a post office to send his letter to Everett and has to wait in line yet again, but he agrees to pay extra for a swift delivery. He is assured the mail will reach its recipient within the week.

He arrives at the main gate of the Tower with time to spare, but not too early that he's not allowed in. The guard takes quite a while just staring at his ticket and then at his face, but he just gets another stamp on the little slip of paper and is told "Don't wander around too much."

He does wander.

Not too far, he stays within view. But he weaves through the gardens, lets his hand glide along the top of the trimmed bushes, until he's climbing the steps to the gazebo where everything started.

Jessamine's gravestone lies before him. Small. Unassuming. A simple slab of concrete, easily overlooked were it not for the long blue banner hanging over it, fluttering slightly in the sea breeze.

He remembers it as clearly as if it'd just happened.

The crimson of her blood marring not just the floor but Corvo's hands as well, when the Lord Protector fell to his knees at her side. How he could feel each desperate beat of her heart as it endeavoured to keep pumping, even as every squeeze of the muscle only succeeded in exsanguinating her further. The way he so easily shielded her soul against the formless haze of the Void and held it, kept it safe and secure while he watched her body be taken and buried. How he, with a simple flick of the wrist, plucked her heart out of her chest and into the Void, how he sliced through the muscle and wove impossible clockwork into the flesh, then put it all back together with wire and a single small chunk of humming whale bone at the center of it all to bind her soul to it, however imperfectly. Corvo's face, when he finally realized whose Heart was in his hands, whose voice spoke through the dead flesh.

A strange twist pulls at his own heart. His throat feels tight while he methodically sheds his hat and gloves; the cold breeze nips at his fingers. He goes down on one knee and strokes a gentle hand across the gravestone. It's slightly dusty, but he knows a servant will come soon to clean it. He traces the shallow indent of each letter. He pulls the three paper flowers out of his coat, twists the stems together, and lays the tiny little makeshift bouquet atop her name cast in stone.

A meager offering, but one he hopes will be enough.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the unfeeling stone and uncaring breeze.

There's a whale in a slaughterhouse somewhere across the vast river, singing its last song of pain and death. He pretends that it's singing not just for itself, but for Jessamine as well.

He rises to his feet, dusts off the knee of his pant leg, turns, and doesn't look back.

The great double doors that lead into the throne room are wide open when he approaches. There's a voice coming from within, a woman, but it's not Emily's. A few feet beyond the door he's stopped by a pair of guards and hands over his ticket, but his eyes are ahead, on the throne. There  _ is _ a woman in front of it and below, but he doesn't care.

_ Emily. _

Empress Emily Kaldwin, First of her Name. The former Child Empress, and the second generation of the Attano line to be Marked by him, though she'll never be officially recognized under the name. And now, she can't claim the other title either.

He can see her left hand dangling in front of the armrest, and it's bare. There's no black on her skin, no silk band around her palm.

Her Mark is gone.

He's more wounded by the sight than he ever expected to be.

Standing at her right side is the Lady Protector as of only a handful of months: Alexi Mayhew, looking imperiously over the proceedings with one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, though he knows she wants nothing more than to drag Emily into her chambers and tear the matching suits off both of them once everything is said and done and they're free to leave the throne room. It seems the Kaldwins just have a habit of ending up with their lovers as their Protectors.

And standing at Emily's left side is...

Corvo.

His heart skips a beat when the man's eyes meet his. He can't keep the smile off his face, even as Corvo's gaze flashes with recognition for just a split second, before the former Lord Protector, now only a Spymaster, schools his expression back to neutrality.

He can't see Corvo's hands, they're clasped behind the man's back. There's still hope.

The woman is dismissed, and the guard holding his ticket clears their throat.

"Sir Vladimir Zhukov of Alexin, here on... private business with the Royal Spymaster, Lord Corvo Attano."

He steps past the two guards, still entirely unable to stop smiling. He forces himself to tear his eyes away from Corvo, to look at Emily instead, to see the look that flutters past her own face, the way her left hand clenches against the metal of her throne for the briefest moment, before she too resumes her learned composure and just pretends to examine his overall presentation.

"Lady Emily, your Highness, it is an honor to finally meet you," he says with a deep bow, a measured amount of lilt to his voice to stay true to where he's supposedly hailing from. "Lady Mayhew as well, of course" he goes on with a shallower bow toward the redheaded woman. "And who could forget the fabled Spymaster, Corvo Attano. My pleasure, it truly is." A third bow, just slightly deeper than the last. He straightens himself and stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

Emily is the one who speaks, naturally. "We welcome you to Dunwall, Sir Zhukov, but I must ask what are your intentions with my father."

He bows his head. "Of course, my Empress. I come with an offer for Lord Attano. I have information he may find useful, and I feel it is my civic duty to share it with him- with  _ you _ , my Lord." Just calling Corvo 'Lord', simply acknowledging the fact that it's  _ Corvo _ the one with the power here, oh, it just sends the most delicious warmth brushing up his spine. He pulls the black book, the one labeled 'Dunwall' inside the cover, out of his coat with a dramatic flourish and holds it toward the raised dais of the throne. "Here is my proof. I could hardly expect the Royal Spymaster to agree without it. Please, take it."

The three just stare at him for a moment. There's palpable tension around Emily and Corvo that Alexi seems oblivious to, even when the Empress turns to her. "Fetch it," she says simply.

Alexi obeys promptly. She climbs down the steps and takes the book. He joins his hands behind him again and waits patiently while she inspects it, leafs quickly through the pages, feels along each cover carefully. "Seems clean," she announces.

Emily just nods and gestures toward Corvo. She's playing the part of bored Empress remarkably well.

The book goes from Protector to Spymaster.

Corvo's hand is still wrapped. He can't see the back of it. He clings to the hope that his Mark, his  _ name _ , is still on the man's skin.

Corvo thumbs through the pages and he can see his eyebrows go up, just for a moment, before the Spymaster snaps the book shut and nods. "You might be useful after all. Come, we'll speak in my office."

He has to consciously hide his excitement when Corvo starts leading him away from the throne. Emily talks behind him, but he's not paying attention. She's just closing the audience period, doing the usual routine for shutting the main doors and so on, he doesn't care. There's absolutely no doubt in his mind that she'll be joining them as soon as she can, but until then...

He'll finally be  _ alone _ with Corvo.


	15. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider gets what's coming to him.

Corvo's office and private chambers aren't the same. He's not the Lord Protector anymore, so he doesn't have to reside so close to the Empress' own chambers, not when Alexi has acclimated to the position so quickly. So, the Spymaster's rooms fall closer to the guest wing, to make it easier to consult with his informants when they need to come talk to him face to face.

The office itself suits the man that occupies it. Not overly big, but not small either. Decorated, but tastefully so. The centerpiece is a large dark wood desk with the Kaldwin crest carved gently into the sides. There is something like a filing cabinet taking up most of the left wall, Corvo's right when he's seated, full of small drawers for all the documents he has on the nobility of Dunwall. There's a weapon rack on the far wall that's just for show, he always keeps his folding blade with him. A smaller, less coldly professional seating area in the corner behind the desk with a little table and two plush armchairs. There are no windows, but the right wall, Corvo's left, holds a very large and detailed map of the whole Empire, as well as a pedestal holding a sculpture in blood amber of a bird in flight. A crow, from the looks of it.

This is the space he is led to, and he immediately makes for the desk. His bag hits the ground and he spins around to lean his weight against the edge, hands splayed out on the wood by his hips. He watches Corvo close the door, sees the recognition in Corvo's eyes that the man is refusing to believe. Without the need to maintain a mask of civility, Corvo's gaze is accusatory, almost hostile.

"Who are you, really?" the Spymaster demands in that wonderfully gruff voice. It never fully recovered from six months' worth of tortured screaming in Coldridge, years and years ago.

He smiles and tilts his head. "Oh, my dear Corvo, let us not prolong this game of pretend any longer. You know who I am."

The man scowls and flexes his left hand. "I know who you  _ look _ like, and he's supposed to be dead."

"I thought as much myself, at the time. Fate turned out to be much kinder, but the end result is the same. I am no longer Anchor to the Void." His eyes scan Corvo's broad frame up and down and stop on his left hand, clenched into a tight fist. "Do you still bear my Mark?"

Corvo's other hand instinctively wraps around his fist, despite the cloth already covering it. There are no words, only a slightly alarmed glare.

He rolls his eyes. "Corvo,  _ please _ . You know it in your gut, your very  _ bones _ , that it's true. Must we really do this? The old 'last thing I said to you'?"

No response.

He heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Very well. If you insist." He sweeps a hand across the polished wood of the desk behind him.

"You were seated right here when I opened the Void to you, worrying about some matter with the Ramsey family. You fell, and I caught you and set you on your feet. You were... angry, mostly, and frustrated, but there was some relief as well in seeing me again after months of silence. We met at the edge of the Ritual Hold. You saw my tomb, but not my corpse. I told you as much. I said I would be dead within two days' time. I felt your anger fade, replaced by confusion, alarm, worry, and eventually desperation when I continued to not acknowledge your obvious and growing concern, even as I assured you that you and Emily would be unharmed. My last words to you were: 'I would try to clear my schedule, if I were you. Particularly in the afternoon'. And then I just..." he mimes the motion into empty air, "...pushed you, out of the Void and back into your chair. You didn't get to reply. You just went to Emily as soon as you were able."

The longer he speaks, the more tension melts away from Corvo's frame, the more the man's look of hostility turns to disbelief instead. Corvo finally moves away from the door and toward him as though in a dream, almost being pulled by an invisible force.

"You really are...?"

"For simplicity's sake, yes. I was the one you knew as the Outsider, though that title no longer applies to me or anyone else. I am, according to the papers in my coat, Sir Vladimir Zhukov, born and raised in Alexin."

Corvo is moving ever closer. He risks raising a hand and is pleased to see Corvo's right come up to meet it, to feel the rough, worn, calloused fingers curl around the back and the thumb press into his palm. Corvo is staring at his hand as though he expects it to vanish into smoke under the slight pressure. The man's gaze shifts to his eyes, pale green rimmed with black and entirely ordinary aside from their color.

"You're human," the Spymaster says. It's not a question, but it also demands confirmation.

He nods. "As human as any of the other Void-touched."

Corvo's brow knits slightly. He moves just that much closer, just a single step. Their eyes are locked. Corvo's hand, his  _ left _ hand, starts to raise toward his face, he wants to feel it,  _ see _ it, see his Mark on the skin, he privately begs f-

The sound of the doorknob turning is like a gunshot through their bubble of silence.

Corvo startles away like he's been electrocuted. He's briefly tempted to be angry at whoever just interrupted them, but that quickly passes when he sees who it is.

"Emily, my dear, w-!"

That's as far as he gets before the Empress' sword is pointed right under his chin, quivering slightly from the forcefulness she unsheathed it with.

"If this is your idea of a joke, you Void-damned  _ bastard _ , I swear I'll-!"

"Emily!"

Corvo thankfully intervenes, grabbing his daughter's wrist and coaxing her sword arm to lower. "Emily, settle down. This isn't- he's human, look at him."

Emily's barely acknowledging her father's presence. She's glaring at  _ him _ while she wrenches her arm free but, mercifully, doesn't put him at sword-point again. "I want to hear it from  _ him _ ," she practically growls.

He at least has enough sense not to let his amusement show on his face. He tries to look demure instead, and gives a small sigh. "I gave you your mother's Heart, so you could set her free and use her dead vessel to bear the soul of her bastard sister instead. Which, if I might add, you carried out admirably."

Emily never stops glaring at him and he doesn't dare move from his spot, still leaning his weight on the back of Corvo's desk. The man himself is just watching warily. Slowly, the Empress angles her sword, sheathes it, and straightens her back imperiously.

He only just starts to relax when he sees her move, too late, too fast to get away.

Her fist crashes into his face like lightning and suddenly there's no office around him and his world is nothing but  _ pain _ , oh by all the Leviathans in the Void why is he even  _ capable _ of feeling this much  _ pain??? _ It should be  _ illegal _ . He very nearly crumples to the floor, the only reason he doesn't is thanks to the desk behind him and Corvo suddenly catching him by the shoulders.

"Emily!" the Spymaster exclaims more out of disbelief than admonishment.

Her response comes with a delay and a laugh. "Hoh-hokay, that felt  _ way _ better than I thought it would. That was for every single word that just came out of your mouth, you  _ bastard _ . I have  _ zero _ qualms about doing it again, so you better think  _ really _ hard about what you're going to say,  _ Zhukov _ ." She spits the name like it's poison.

He can just about manage to peek through the thick blanket of agony that seems to have glued itself across his whole face.  _ Void _ , how it hurts. His hands are slathered with blood, his nose is  _ definitely _ out of alignment and throbbing horribly, and there's a dull ache spreading inside his skull. By the Void, did Emily somehow manage to give him a  _ concussion? _ The only solace are Corvo's hands, still steady and strong on his shoulders, though he suspects the man himself won't be getting involved beyond that.

When he looks up at her she's still glaring at him, but now with a much more self-satisfied air. Her hands are on her hips and there's a bit of red on the back of her fingers.

The first noise he makes isn't even a word, it's just a vague pained groan. He feels his nose, gingerly, and doesn't dare try to set it back into place. "Did you  _ really _ have to go for the nose, my dear?"

The next thing he knows is  _ even more pain _ , oh  _ Void _ , when will it  _ end??? _ Her fist sinks into his stomach like a sledgehammer and he doubles over, barely kept upright by Corvo still at his side. Caustic bile rises in his throat and he forces it back down and immediately regrets it and starts coughing, which just ends up spraying the blood from his nose across the floor.

" _ Emily _ ."

Corvo's voices carries a warning this time, but she doesn't seem to pay him any mind. Her voice is directed at  _ him _ while he's still barely standing, trying not to vomit all over Corvo's office. "How do you like  _ that _ instead, you  _ asshole? _ "

"Emily, stop. He's done nothing to warrant this."

"Nothing?  _ Nothing?! _ How can you  _ possibly _ say that?! He took mother's Heart, he took her  _ soul! _ He never lifted a  _ finger _ to stop Delilah, or the coup, or the plague, or her  _ Void-damned murder! _ He just sat in the Void and  _ watched _ , he thought it was all just  _ amusing! _ Dunwall was  _ dying! _ He let you  _ rot _ in Coldridge for six  _ fucking _ months! He gave  _ Delilah _ a Mark! And now he thinks he can just  _ waltz _ in like he owns the place, like nothing ever happened and he wasn't responsible for the suffering of  _ thous-! _ "

" _ Emily! _ "

Corvo's voice has a dangerously hard edge to it. He's not being held anymore, the Spymaster has stepped away and closer to his daughter, who refuses to back down and simply glares up at her father.

"Emily, look at him."

She keeps her eyes on Corvo.

" _ Do it _ ."

Begrudgingly, she lowers her gaze back to him.

His breathing is labored, every time he inhales it feels like his stomach is trying to explode. He's still nursing his broken nose with one hand and probably looking like a literal bloody mess for it, but his other hand has wrapped around his midsection, smearing blood along the side of his coat. He can't even stand straight, most of his weight is being propped up by Corvo's desk and he's hunched over, squinting through the definite migraine that's settled across his skull.

"Does  _ this _ ," Corvo gestures in his general direction, "look like someone who would do all that?"

" _ Yes _ , father, he's-"

"No, listen to me." The Spymaster holds the Empress by the shoulders. "The Outsider is-  _ wasn't _ human. He was a God. Gods don't feel the way we do, they're hardly capable of feeling at all."

"How do you know that?"

" _ He _ told me."

She looks at him, demanding answers.

He groans and nods. "I had about as much emotional depth as a particularly dull wolfhound, my dear," he says. His voice is strained. It hurts to speak.

Corvo goes on. "Over the years he would visit me infrequently, often with some form of cryptic message, but sometimes just to talk. Once, I accused him of toying with his Marked for his own amusement and he corrected me."

"And you believe him?"

"He has  _ never _ lied to me, Emily."

She looks from Corvo to him, then back at Corvo. Her hands go back to her hips stubbornly. "So, what, we just let him start working for you now like any random informant?"

" _ Yes _ . Emily, look at him." Another gesture in his direction. "He's barely of age. What if he gets recognized by the Abbey? By some fanatic cultist? We can't just turn him away and let him loose on the street. You don't have a home, do you?"

The last question is directed at him. He shakes his head. "No. And I am a little over a month past my eighteenth birthday, if you must know."

Corvo turns back to the Empress with an air of exasperation. "See? Emily, you were almost beating up a  _ child _ ."

" _ I _ was a child when mother died," she throws back fiercely.

He flinches like she just threatened to hit him again, but she remains focused on Corvo, who is unmoved. His mouth is a hard line. "And you're going to take it out on him? Without so much as giving him a chance to defend himself?"

"He doesn't  _ deserve _ one," she hisses.

" _ Everyone _ deserves a chance to fight back," Corvo replies.

"Jindosh didn't."

The Spymaster's expression sours. "You already know my opinion on that."

"Yes." Emily steps closer. Her voice has a dangerous edge. "I know you think  _ torture _ is better than death." That is what finally makes Corvo avert his gaze, but she keeps going. "I've known about the way you rooted out the corruption in the guard ranks for  _ years _ , father. I know what you're going to say, that I was just a child, that it was for my sake, that I shouldn't have had to know such things. But I did. I  _ do _ . I don't care who you paid off to wear that damned mask instead of you, but they did a fine job, didn't they, kidnapping and torturing and blackmailing until only those loyal to the throne were left?"

Corvo's not looking at Emily.

The silence drags on.

He breaks it by giving a pitiful groan and hunching forward with a feigned dry heave. "If you're quite done tearing at each other like starving hounds, I'd like some medical attention, if you don't mind."

Both of them turn to him. Emily actually goes for her blade again, but Corvo puts a firm hand on her shoulder. "We will discuss this  _ later _ ," he says in a low voice.

The Empress gives her Spymaster a withering look. He doesn't budge.

" _ Fine _ ."

She spins on her heels, stomps to the door, and slams it shut on the way out.


	16. Private Matters

He's led by the shoulders to Corvo's private chambers and is, for once, thankful that there are no servants out in the hall to see him. They don't go far, it's just the room adjacent to the office, but there's no door connecting the two directly. And the fact he still can't stand straight and therefore can't walk very fast doesn't help.

Corvo's bedroom is, much like the man's office, tastefully decorated and without unnecessary clutter.

The walls are a pleasant blue, a little darker than a clear sky but also not as saturated, and most of the wood grains on display are dark, almost black. It reminds him of the Void as it once was, and he knows the effect is intentional. There's a large wardrobe, a dresser, a chest at the foot of the bed and a nightstand beside it with a lamp. The mattress is wide, but not quite couple-sized. Corvo doesn't spend much time here, so there's little in the way of things to pass the time. A desk, much smaller than his workstation, sits against the wall right under a broad window looking out over the Wrenhaven, and not far from it is a smallish bookcase that's only half-filled with books. The other spaces hold little decorations-- another blood amber sculpture of a somewhat stylized rat sitting on its hindlegs, a stuffed Pandyssian bird, a pinned and framed bloodfly, a clock. There's the hum of a rune, maybe two, hidden somewhere. A second door, currently closed, opens to what he knows to be Corvo's private bathroom.

Corvo leads him to the bed and sits him on the edge, strong hands moving his light frame easily. He grunts a little at the impact that jostles his tender stomach, but the sight of Corvo standing tall in front of him makes up for it somewhat.

"Do you have any elixirs?"

He nods.

"Take a few large gulps and cup a hand under your chin."

He's not looking forward to what's coming, but it's inevitable if he doesn't want to end up with his nose shaped like an S. He carefully unbuttons his coat so he can reach inside and pull out a red vial. It's not full, there's only about half of it left, but he doesn't need more than that. His hands are still bloody, even if it's dried considerably. He smears the cap and the glass when he opens the vial, downs the contents, and lets it tumble to the floor empty.

As soon as the crimson liquid hits his stomach it's like warmth blooms in his core. The discomfort on his midsection passes almost immediately as the heat spreads through his veins. He hurries to move his hand under his jaw and tilt his head back. He can't help squeezing his eyes shut.

One of Corvo's hands wraps around his nape. The other grabs his nose and  _ forces _ it back into place with a muffled crack and little warning, making him give a pathetic whimper.

"Sorry," he hears Corvo say.

He can't reply. Partly it's because Corvo is still squeezing his nose, keeping it aligned until the elixir knits everything back together. Partly it's because there's now a trickle of syrupy blood making its way down to his chin and he really does  _ not _ want to get that half-coagulated mess into his mouth. He can at least stare up at the man, which seems to amuse Corvo because a smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"It's so strange, seeing you without the black eyes."

He smiles in lieu of speaking.

Corvo's smirk fades. "You just look so... small."

Oh.

He was hoping for something like 'beautiful'. Gorgeous. Wonderful. But, he supposes 'small' is true as well. He's relatively tall, but not so much that Billie didn't have an inch or two on him, and Corvo definitely has more than half a foot of extra height. The only reason he was ever taller when they used to meet was because he was always floating.

"Were you killed at  _ exactly _ eighteen?"

He nods as much as he can in Corvo's grip. The heat of the elixir has gathered in his nose and he can feel the last crinkles of cartilage molding back together.

Corvo gives a single breath of a chuckle. "Quite the present. Being made into a God."

He stares at Corvo incredulously.

Corvo seems entirely too amused with himself for his tastes. "Sorry. It can't have been pleasant." The Spymaster feels along his nose carefully and releases him. "That should do. You can use my bathroom to wash up."

He just nods again and gets to his feet,  _ without _ pain at long last. A brief glance at the mirror reveals some bad bruises around his nose, but he knows those take longer to fade. He turns on the tap and scrubs at his hands, wipes off the blood goop, but he doesn't go too far. Just enough to let him hold things without spreading the red any further, which he uses to start shedding his coat and unbuttoning his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

Corvo's voice drifts in through the open door and he looks up with a playful smile as he pops another button free. "You said to wash up, my dear Corvo."

"You know what I meant."

He lets his shirt slide off his shoulders and sets it on top of his semi-folded coat. "Evidently I do, my dear." He starts to very deliberately work the front of his pants open.

"And you're just going to... undress in front of me?"

He shrugs vaguely. "I watched you undress from the Void plenty of times. It seems only fair to level the naval field, yes?" He hooks his thumb under the hem of his pants and very slowly starts working them down his legs. He keeps stealing glances toward Corvo to gauge his reaction, but...

There is none. Corvo's expression is unreadable.

He finishes undressing, underwear and all, but Corvo is still just...  _ looking _ at him. No lust in the man's eyes, no nothing, not even when he turns to face Corvo head on with his hands on his hips. "You seem entirely unfazed by this, Corvo. Am I somehow not pleasing to the eye?"

That finally draws another smirk across Corvo's lips. "Were you expecting me to say 'beautiful' before?"

He can feel himself blushing when he averts his gaze and curses his own human limitations.

It makes Corvo laugh. "I'm an old man. I've seen my share of bare skin." He gestures behind him, to the bathtub and shower head. "Wash up. I'd like to talk to you once you're presentable."

Oh, how that  _ frustrates _ him. He glares at Corvo, who just continues to smile placidly, then goes over to his discarded coat and digs into the pockets, until he finds the blue book, his journal. "Here." He tosses it out of the bathroom and into Corvo's lap. "If you insist on just sitting there, you might as well read that. I'd rather not repeat myself. My name is written inside." With that he retreats into the bathroom, though he still doesn't bother closing the door.

He takes his time filling the bathtub with hot water, adjusting the temperature until it's at just the right amount of pleasantly scalding, sprinkling in a probably exaggerated amount of bathing salts, and then letting himself sink into the wonderful heat that envelops him. For a time he just soaks it in, lounging comfortable and lose with the water up to his neck. He starts scrubbing at his hands first, working the blood out of all the little dips and folds of the fingers, from under and around the nails, until they're spotless. He dips under the surface and, on a whim, decides to see how long he can stay under. It turns out to be quite a while, a lot longer than he should by all rights be capable of. He comes back up with a slight gasp, then starts rubbing at the blood on his mouth before realizing something.

"Corvo! Could you fetch your hand mirror for me, please?"

There's no verbal response, but Corvo walks into the bathroom, pulls the thing out of a drawer under the sink and hands it over.

"Thank you, my dear." He dips it under the water to let it be warmed more quickly.

Corvo sets his journal down next to his clothes. The man seems troubled, but says nothing and merely leaves.

He shrugs and starts scrubbing his face while looking in the mirror. It's not as difficult, there's less irksome grooves for the blood to get stuck in. He'll probably be sneezing red for another day or two, but he's satisfied with the result. The bruises have cleared up as well and, as far as he can tell, his nose is no worse for wear. He sets the mirror aside and finishes by giving the rest of his body a thorough scrub, hair included, then soaking in the hot water for a moment longer before he finally deigns to get out.

He lets the water drain, towels off, styles his hair in the mirror so it'll dry the way he prefers it. He dons his clothes and tucks his journal back into his coat, but doesn't put the garment on; he's still comfortably warm from the bath, he doesn't need it. Looking in the mirror, he purposefully leaves the first two buttons of his shirt undone and finally saunters out of the bathroom.

"You killed three men," Corvo says before he's barely out the door.

He gives an overly long sigh. "Yes. I did," he says matter-of-factly on his way to draping his coat over the back of Corvo's desk chair. He turns back to the Spymaster. "Emily has exactly one more kill to her name, and that is Jindosh. The other three? Mistakes. Reflexes. Simple guards, doing their jobs. She's made her peace with it, I can tell you that with absolute certainty. And you may not have blood on your sword yourself, but you still thought to give Daud your Mask and tell him to terrorize the guard into submission." He walks over to where Corvo is seated on the edge of the bed and puts both hands on his shoulders.

"Could we please not start crying over spilled blood, my dear? We each have our dark pasts. I can't honestly say I'm entirely undeserving of Emily's wrath, Corvo, I'm not blind to my own failings. Rest assured that those three brave souls will forever be remembered, and I will endeavour to never let the same fate befall anyone else." He says the last part with a hand over his heart, then lets it drop. "Literally, by the way. I so far seem incapable of forgetting even the smallest moment of my human existence. The journal is a formality. More so a way to reflect on things than to record them for posterity."

Corvo is staring up at him, seemingly thinking to himself, digesting his words. In the end, Corvo gives a small nod and sigh. "Alright. Sit."

He obeys and settles down next to the Spymaster on the bed.

"The Mark is your name?" Corvo says after a moment.

He smiles. "Yes. And you never answered my question. Do you still have it?"

Corvo looks at his left hand, the wrapped one. The fingers clench. It flips over, palm up, and the strap around it falls away. "In a way," Corvo says, and holds it out toward him with the back facing up.

There  _ is _ a Mark.

But it's not his name. His name was curves and straights and points in the most elegant arrangement. This is like a gross oversimplification of it. A plain circle, with a diagonal slash through it from top right to bottom left, and two more spokes on the top left and bottom right that don't reach into the circumference.

He takes Corvo's hand in his and, for the briefest moment, the man makes to withdraw it before relaxing. He looks up. "What is it?"

Corvo shakes his head slightly. "When you touched me, it... stung, briefly. Now it just feels warm."

He traces the black lines with a finger, then drags his thumb across them, as though they might go back to what they were if he just wills it hard enough.

"Why did Emily's go away?"

He's still feeling across the back of Corvo's hand. "She only carried hers for a few brief months, less than a year. You were with the Void for decades, dear Corvo. I suppose it started to consider you its property, and the Void is altogether unwilling to let go of things that should rightfully belong to it."

"The Void can think?"

He shakes his head. "An oversimplification. The Void is... inertia, and entropy. You spent much of your life letting it flow through you, so long that you became a natural extension of it. The opposite is true for Emily." He traces the circle one last time and looks up at Corvo. "I assume you can still use your abilities?"

"Yes, but it's... different. You described it as the Void flowing through me. If it was a river before, now the water carries hail when it comes through."

He nods. "It feels as though they might go out of control, perhaps?"

"Sort of, yes."

"They won't," he says with confidence. "Without an Anchor the Void  _ will _ eventually become unstable, but that will not come to pass within your lifetime. Or mine. Or that of any human currently alive or to be born for many generations yet. You have nothing to worry about."

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

Corvo looks at his changed Mark. "Alright." The strap goes over it again. "Is there a translation of some kind for your name?"

He thinks for a moment. "Yes, I believe there is." He rises to his feet and goes to Corvo's desk. He finds paper and pen, writes it out, returns to the bed, and hands it to Corvo.

The man predictably butchers the pronunciation on the first attempt. It takes a few tries, some coaxing from him, but eventually...

" _ Vaarûn. _ "

Oh,  _ Void _ , hearing his name said in the Spymaster's gruff voice is the most beautiful music to his ears.

Even Corvo seems surprised, he suddenly looks at his hand. "It... your name made it warm as well."

Vaarûn is smiling from ear to ear when he takes Corvo's hand between his again. "It must miss me," he says half-jokingly.

Corvo laughs. "It must." He hands the paper back.

"You're the only one who knows," the former God says in a lower voice, like he's sharing a secret.

"I figured as much."

Vaarûn sandwiches Corvo's Marked hand between his palms, sharing in its warmth. "I suppose I must apologize to you. You said I've never lied to you, but it seems I have." Corvo raises an eyebrow, but doesn't interject. "I told you I was going to die, for one thing, but that is evidently not true. My sight could not reach beyond the exact point where Billie entered my tomb. You can see how that might lead me to believe she would do what she'd been gearing up to do for the better part of several weeks."

He runs a thumb along the edge of Corvo's hand. "And, a lie I told all my Marked. 'I don't play favorites'," he echoes from his former existence. "I believed that to be true, at the time. It seems horribly myopic in hindsight. My dulled emotional spectrum simply could not fathom the possibility that I might be more fond of a particular human when they are such tiny, fragile things. But I was. I  _ am _ ." He holds Corvo's hand tighter.

"That was  _ you _ , my dear Corvo, as I know you already suspected. You were right. You were always my favorite. The way you handled your targets, it made you more and more...  _ intriguing _ each and every time. The branding of Campbell that led to his demise as a Weeper. The poetic justice of the Pendletons, which saw them both dead from exhaustion trying to meet the exorbitant quotas they themselves had set. The aided kidnapping of Miss Boyle and the eventual discovery of both her own and, by proxy, Lord Brisby's suicides. The revelation about Burrows and his inevitable sentence to death. All precisely designed to, in your mind, keep the blood off  _ your _ hands. It was  _ fascinating _ ."

Corvo seems uncomfortable, wanting to pull away, but Vaarûn cradles his cheek and wills the Spymaster to meet his eyes. "Corvo. My dear Corvo. Don't misunderstand me, please. I know you're still haunted by your choices, but don't be. You were in an unwinnable situation, trying desperately to do good when there was little good to be done in the small scale, by your own hands. I was fascinated by it, and now, I find myself admiring your resolve and being thoroughly  _ smitten _ by you."

He scoots himself closer. He's still holding the Spymaster's left hand. "My dear Corvo. I knew all your thoughts as my Marked. I knew you had feelings, fantasies you would always dismiss because you knew them to be impossible. But that is no longer true. I'm here, my dear Corvo. I'm  _ alive _ , and frankly  _ brimming _ with hormonal whims that I am more than eager to act upon, if only you would have me."

They're separated by less than a foot now.

"Vaarûn..."

He visibly  _ shivers _ . Oh Void, the way Corvo's voice almost  _ purrs _ around the R in his name is just... perfect. Absolutely  _ perfect _ .

"I'm triple your age."

Vaarûn rolls his eyes. "And I'll tell you the same thing I told the last person that used that argument: I had four thousand years as a God. I'm older than  _ Dunwall itself _ ." He draws closer still, enough to feel Corvo's breath. "I  _ want _ you, my dearest Corvo. And I know you want  _ me _ . There is not a single reason in my mind as to why we  _ shouldn't _ act on it."

He's so close. Corvo doesn't pull away, but he's not moving in either.

"Emily will disapprove."

He scoffs. "That will remain true regardless of what we do here now."

_ He's so close _ .

Still Corvo refuses to make the first move.

Vaarûn leans further still, so close their noses are almost touching. "Come on, my dear Corvo. My last Marked. Go ahead. Make the Outsider  _ submit _ to your will, for once."

It's a thought he remembers hearing all too clearly from Corvo's mind, drifting like seaweed through his own expanded awareness whenever the man grew particularly frustrated with his former self, and it's a thought he now repeats back at its original thinker.

Corvo's resolve finally snaps.

A long breath drains out of him. He closes the distance.

His lips find Vaarûn's.

Corvo's beard is rough against his skin, but  _ Void _ he could not care  _ less _ because he suddenly feels warm and tingly all over and his arms snake over Corvo's shoulders and lock around his neck and trap him in the kiss, and Corvo's hands settle on his waist and almost guide him when he shuffles and shifts until he's on the Spymaster's lap, straddling him, one hand snarled through his greying hair clawing at the scalp-

Corvo wrenches himself away entirely too soon. He's breathing hard. "Wait."

Vaarûn quite literally  _ whines _ . "Corvo,  _ please _ , what more do I have to say to-"

"Tonight."

Their eyes meet. There's a fire in Corvo's that wasn't there before.

"Not now, I have work to do. I have to speak to Emily, tell the servants to set up one of the guest rooms for you. But come to my chambers tonight. Half an hour before I sleep. We'll do this then, I promise."

Vaarûn can't help his frustration, not when he's  _ literally _ sitting in Corvo's lap, but he acquiesces, not without a huff. "Very well. I'll hold you to it, my dear Corvo." He begrudgingly climbs off Corvo's lap and tugs his shirt straight, buttoning up the collar.

The Spymaster rises as well with a sigh. His rough, calloused hand cradles Vaarûn's cheek and he covers it with his own. Corvo's lifts his other hand, the left one, and looks at it for just a moment, before meeting the former God's eyes and cupping both hands around his jaw.

"Vaarûn."

He makes a noise of appreciation in his throat. A small hum, not quite a moan. "Speak my name again and I won't let you leave this room."

Corvo just smiles and leans down for a quick, chaste kiss. "I'll see you tonight," the Spymaster whispers between them. He pulls away. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Someone will come for you when your room is ready," Corvo says as he's moving to the door, where he stops for just a moment.

Vaarûn gives him a little wave with his fingers. "I'll be waiting with bated breath, my dearest."

The Spymaster smiles, and leaves.


	17. Shared Power

Night finds Vaarûn walking to Corvo's chambers, at a time where the halls of Dunwall Tower are nearly deserted. He has his gloves on, the bluish pair.

Evening passed quickly. He milled about in Corvo's room for a time, until a servant came and led him to his new permanent chambers in the Tower. He was told he could make any request he wished for changes in the decoration and left to his own devices. He unpacked, put what few belongings he had and didn't mind leaving behind away, and made himself busy until the time came to return to the Spymaster.

He knocks on the door twice. After a moment it swings open.

"Vaarûn."

Corvo's warm smile is all the invitation he needs to step into the man's arms and accept his kiss. It's wonderful, how easily it comes to him, how perfectly Corvo's arms fit around his lithe frame. The man is already in his sleeping clothes, just loose pants and a light shirt that do little to blunt the contours of his toned body under Vaarûn's touch.

The door closes behind him. The kiss is just as perfect as it was the first time, but the former God is the one to break it now, as gently as possible.

"My dearest Corvo."

There's a slightly heavier exhale from the Spymaster. "Yes?"

"Did you notice the lack of humming from your hidden runes?"

"I did. I assumed you'd taken them?"

"Yes. Though that was not my intention at first." He strokes Corvo's jaw. The glove scrapes against his beard. "I have something to show you, my dearest."

Corvo seems puzzled, but he releases his hold.

Vaarûn walks idly to the middle of the room, tugging at his fingertips to start taking off his gloves. "After you left earlier, I was curious to see if the whale bone still held my name." The right glove comes off. "I searched and found them in your chest. They did indeed still bear my name, but..." The left glove comes off. "Touching them had an...  _ unexpected _ effect."

He turns on his heel and holds out his hand.

His  _ left _ hand.

There on the back of it, starkly black against his pale skin, is the slashed circle that Corvo bears on his own hand.

"I have become Marked, my dear Corvo."

The man's eyes go wide. He quickly closes the distance between them and takes Vaarûn's hand in his. The former God feels his Mark warm pleasantly at the touch. Just like he had it done to him earlier, Corvo traces a finger along the black lines, and wherever the digit goes it's like a hot ember crawling along the black, it burns but is somehow gentle and comforting at the same time.

"How...?" Corvo unwraps his own hand and puts both Marks side by side; they're identical. He looks up at Vaarûn. "You said the Void doesn't think."

"It does not," he confirms with a small head shake. "To paraphrase my earlier explanation, the Void felt... comfortable with you, after years of being channeled through your flesh and will, and that is why it did not leave you. By that same logic, there is no other human with whom the Void feels more comfortable with than me, not when I was it's Anchor for more than four  _ thousand _ years. I suppose all it needed was... a slight  _ push _ to fully manifest itself."

Corvo watches him speak, then looks back at his Mark. "You absorbed the runes, then? You have your own abilities?"

"I do." He slips his hand out of Corvo's grip and clenches it. The Mark shimmers and sparks. The Void churns and roils like a storm at sea under his skin. "Would you like me to demonstrate?"

Corvo nods and steps back.

The former God breathes in deep. His eyes slide shut. The Mark flashes. When he opens them the pale green is gone, replaced by the featureless black he is so well known for.

Where Corvo's Dark Vision renders the world in amber and Daud's Void Gaze did so in violet, Vaarûn's version bleaches everything into lifeless gray. It is only the living bodies around him that break the monotony, lighting up in colored silhouettes. Corvo's bears something like a dark ocean blue. His Mark is like scorching white-hot lines in Vaarûn's altered vision, lines that extend in wisps throughout Corvo's silhouette and wrap like smoke around his heart. Through the walls he can see servants, guards, guests, all with some variation of green. The Empress shines with an aggressively bright gold in her chambers.

Corvo tenses at the sight of Vaarûn with black eyes. It's subtle, but the former God can see it.

"Dark Vision?"

Vaarûn shakes his head. "I call it All Sight. I'll need more time to experiment, but it seems to show the overall disposition of others toward me with a color gradient."

"What color am I?"

" _ You _ , my dear Corvo," he says, moving close and draping his arms over the man's shoulders. "You are the most  _ exquisite _ shade of indigo."

Corvo is still slightly tense when he approaches with his eyes all black. It only fades when his All Sight does.

"And Emily?"

"Gold."

The Spymaster seems amused. He rests his hands on Vaarûn's waist. "So, gold bad, indigo good?"

"I think it's more along the lines of 'gold wants to stab me' and 'indigo is going to make love to me'. I can only imagine what red and purple might mean."

Corvo hums out a chuckle. He pulls back, so he can hold Vaarûn's Marked hand and look at it. "No form of enhanced mobility?"

"Not yet, but I do believe I have a small gift for you, my dear." He takes Corvo's own Marked hand, flips the slashed circle up, and touches a finger to the center of it. The lines flare with light and heat as the Void hums in his bones.

When he's done, the simplistic design has changed slightly on both their hands. There is now a trio of spokes on each upper corner around the circle and a second, much smaller circumference has formed in the middle, breaking the diagonal crossing the diameter of the bigger circle. Corvo rubs a thumb over the Mark.

"That should enhance both of our abilities without increasing your energy consumption. I believe I can do a little more as well, if I get enough runes."

"More like what?"

Vaarûn smiles. "Billie draws directly from the Void to fuel her abilities. She doesn't need to rely on remedies or any other dubious liquids, and as far as I've been able to ascertain, I am the same. This could apply to you as well through this Void Resonance we now share."

They both look down at their Marks, side by side, both slightly different than before, until Vaarûn suddenly wraps his arms around Corvo's neck and pulls him into a surprise kiss which, to his credit, the man is quick to respond to. The Spymaster locks the other into a tight, welcoming hug, almost an invitation for more. They part with a shared gasp.

The former God is grinning. "In any case," he starts, running a hand through Corvo's hair. "I do believe I was originally invited here for an entirely different reason, my dearest Corvo."

The man just smiles.

"Allow me to remind you, my dear, that I knew your  _ every _ thought as one of my Marked." Vaarûn purposefully lets his weight lean against Corvo's front. "I know  _ exactly _ everything you have ever wanted to do to me, and I'll tell you right now that I'm open to  _ all _ of it. Yes, even the thoughts involving blood and bruises. My only restriction is that you do not use binds and blades together, but I have been  _ eagerly _ waiting for literally anything and everything you'd have me do."

He pushes a leg between Corvo's knees. Vaarûn grinds against him, mouth only inches away, close enough to feel the man's breath hitch.

"So.. How would you have the Outsider serve you, Corvo Attano?"

It seems like hearing his full name is what does it.

The former God suddenly finds himself scooped right off his feet and unceremoniously dumped onto the mattress. He has little time to get comfortable before Corvo is climbing over him, pinning his wrists above his head with a single hand, kissing him hungrily while his other hand settles on his neck, mere contact with the promise of something far,  _ far _ less innocent.

Just as quickly as he began, Corvo stops and breaks the kiss but his hands don't budge. "Give me a safeword," he breathes.

Vaarûn's heart is racing and his blood is full of heat, but he groans in frustration at the sudden interruption. "Corvo, I told you, I already know-"

"A safeword," the Spymaster repeats.

He gives an exaggerated sigh. "This is not at all necessary, my dear, I  _ told _ you-"

"I don't care. I want you to have a way of stopping me anyway."

They lock eyes. It's clear they won't get anywhere if he doesn't do this. "Very well," he says in a huff.

What should the word be? Definitely not Void, or anything to do with Jessamine. Weeper? No, too morbid. Abbey? Not distinct enough. Leviathan? No, he'd rather not associate his old friends with something like this in his mind.

"Overseer," he decides. "I can't think of a better mood-killer."

Corvo smirks and nods. "Then you're going to do exactly as you're told,  _ Vaarûn _ . Understood?"

The former God feels a shiver spark up his spine.

"Yes, my Lord."


	18. Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Outsider spends some time with his favorite Marked.

"Strip."

Corvo's gruff, hardened voice is a command spoken with the authority that only comes with years of being in a position of power. He stands back, arms folded, a dangerous glint in his eyes, and the sight and sound of his demand is like a shock of heat through every nerve and vein in Vaarûn's body.

The former God rises languidly off the bed to sit on the mattress. He obeys, but slowly. His fingers find the first metallic button and nudge it free of the loop of twine that holds it shut. He does the same to the next one. And the next. And the fourth. And the fifth. And so on, popping each button open with careful, deliberate movements, until the last one comes undone and his coat falls open.

His eyes never leave Corvo's.

He lets the coat slide off his shoulders and onto the floor and moves on to his shirt. He does the same thing, gently nudging each carved whale bone button free between his fingers. There's less of them here so he takes even longer with each one, like the little things might snap in two at the slightest provocation. Eventually, the garment falls open and joins his coat on the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The dark look Corvo is giving him is making Vaarûn's blood  _ sing _ .

He's forced to break eye contact when he leans down to unbuckle each of his boots, always with that deliberate slowness. One buckle slides open, then the other. He toes each boot off, thumbs his socks off, shoves them into the empty boots, and sits up straight again.

Corvo's gaze hasn't strayed once.

His fingers find the front of his pants. He pushes his thumb on the button gently, loosely, until it pops open after a few long moments. He pinches the pull tab of the zipper and works it down, one tiny little tooth at a time. He lets his weight sink into the mattress again, so he can lift his hips and work both pants and underwear down to his thighs. He sits up again and slides the rest of his clothes off. They form a messy pile by Corvo's bedside, leaving him naked and oh so willing on the man's bed.

"What now, my Lord?"

Corvo smiles, he likes being called Lord, but he shakes his head. "No speaking." He nods toward the headboard. "Lie down. Spread your legs and bend them."

Vaarûn is more than happy to comply. While he maneuvers himself into position, Corvo walks around the bed to stand at the foot of it. The Spymaster can see the entirety of his body like this, his torso and arms and legs and half-hard length, and he has absolutely no shame in putting himself on display for the man who was once known as the Masked Felon. Corvo is still in the same position with his arms folded

"Touch yourself."

Vaarûn has to hold back a whimper. He's not sure if 'no speaking' includes noises that aren't words, but he'll play it safe for now.

His hands start to roam his own body. He lets his fingers drag over his lips and down his neck. He moves over the curve of his shoulders, his upper arms, his slightly-too-angular elbows. He palms across his chest, over his nipples, along ribs that stand out through the pale skin whenever he draws a deeper inhale. He feels down his sides to his waist and hips, then pulls back up to his stomach, his belly, the faint seams leading down to his groin which he follows down between his legs. There's barely any hair on his body, only a very light dusting of it around the base of his length.

He frames said length with his Marked hand, two fingers on either side of the base, palm flat on his pubic mound. The Mark flashes, framing the shaft with light, briefly, and then the world is rendered colorless and Corvo shines with a blindingly beautiful indigo.

He almost regrets doing it. All Sight makes it harder to see the man's reaction, but there  _ is _ one. Corvo's controlled exterior breaks, for just a moment, at seeing Vaarûn with black eyes, splayed out so brazenly before him. There's a hitch in his breath and that tension in his shoulders again, subtle but very much present. His own Marked hand, still bare, clenches against his arm.

All Sight fades and color floods back into the world.

Vaarûn continues. His other hand comes around and curls around his length. His breathing, already heavier, starts to turn ragged. He's not quite at full mast yet, but it's a matter of seconds to work himself up to it when Corvo keeps staring at him like  _ that _ , like he wants to break the former God in a million different ways. Vaarûn breathes and sighs and hisses, but he doesn't moan, he doesn't whimper or groan or cry out. It's the simple noise of air rushing out of his mouth and past his teeth while he works at himself and squirms in Corvo's bed, strokes up and down his arousal, rolls a thumb over the head and palms at it, reaches further down and splays a hand over his tight entrance.

Corvo just watches at first, but his loose pants can't hide his obvious enjoyment at the show. He finally moves. He goes to his bedside table, grabs something and tosses it onto the mattress next to Vaarûn. "Wait," he commands.

The former God obeys.

His hands go still and just settle along the groove between thigh and crotch on either side of his arousal, but he can't help his grin. The thing Corvo brought out is a little bottle of oil, very similar to the one he saw in Karnaca. This one has more of a bluish tint to it, however, and he knows its fragrance is meant to resemble the salt of the sea instead of flowers.

Corvo climbs into bed and Vaarûn is suddenly blind. The Spymaster ties the blindfold in place quickly, expertly, making sure no light can slip through or under any gaps, then pulls away again. The last thing Vaarûn feels is the chill of glass when the bottle of oil is placed on his chest, right between his nipples, before he's forced to rely on hearing alone to keep track of Corvo. He laughs, or at least does so to the best of his ability while still not actually producing any sound in his throat.

For the moment at least, it's not hard to pinpoint the man's location. He's still next to the bed and, if the faint shifting and scraping of fabric is any indication he must be stripping down to nothing as well. Vaarûn has seen that particular sight enough from the Void to know what it looks like, he doesn't need his eyes to picture all the little dips and curves of Corvo's body, his wonderfully tanned skin, the scars both old and new, the unnatural strength and vitality of his Mark on display in his toned physique. Vaarûn can see it in his mind's eye, but he still wishes he could touch it, explore it with his fingers, taste it with his tongue.

But he waits. Like he was told to do. His arousal  _ aches _ for more, but he waits.

"Keep going."

Corvo's voice comes from the foot of the bed again when he next hears it. The man can move with absolute silence when he wants to, he might've even Blinked, and the former God loves it.

"Finger yourself. Moan for me, Vaarûn."

He does.  _ Void _ , how he does, just because of his name being said by Corvo, just from the way the man's voice, rough with age and scarred from torture, curls around the vowels and caresses the R and trails into something that feels like a tender kiss in his ears.

Vaarûn's hands get to work again. He's blind, but it's not hard to pluck the vial of oil from where Corvo left it on his chest. He pops the cork and drips some onto his palm, rests the bottle on his sternum to carefully cork it again and leave it there so he doesn't lose track of it. He spreads the oil across his palms and fingers, its sea-like scent reaching him easily. Deprived of his sight, all his other senses feel heightened, electrified. The bedsheets under him are soft and warm from his own body heat. The air is cool, but not uncomfortable. The glass of the vial on his chest is quickly growing warm against his skin. The bed sometimes creaks slightly under his shifting weight. He hears  _ something _ from Corvo's direction, some small movement maybe, it's too faint to identify, and he silently hopes the man is touching himself as well, watching him with those dark eyes.

Vaarûn wraps a hand around himself and  _ groans _ , loud and guttural and full of lust. He doesn't hold back, he lets all his pleasure flow into moans, cries, wordless noises of bliss while his hand glides easily up and down his length and the other reaches further down, fingers finding his entrance and sliding across it, spreading the oil liberally. He has to change his position and bring his legs up, sort of catch his elbows into the hollow of each bent knee, and he's struggling to maintain the angle until he feels a folded pillow being tucked under his pelvis. He can't help his laugh at the thought of Corvo hurrying to get the thing in place, but he doesn't stop. The pillow leaves his rear propped up at just the right angle. He knows for a fact it also leaves him wide open for Corvo to watch and grins to himself.

One hand stays around his length, pumping slowly while the other, the Marked one, goes down to toy with his puckered entrance. He touches it, draws little circles around it, pushes against it once, twice, and then slides in easily to a prolonged moan from him as the digit sinks in all the way down to the knuckle. He curls it to poke at that special spot inside him, it makes his hips twitch with a burst of pleasure, but he doesn't insist on it. He wants,  _ hopes _ to feel Corvo abuse his prostate, not his own fingers. He can't hear what the man is doing over his own noises, has no idea where Corvo is beyond 'not on the bed', but he keeps going anyway, spreading himself with one, two, three fingers, moaning and squirming all the while.

"Stop."

Vaarûn whines but obeys. He withdraws his hands, lets them sit inert to either side of his crotch again, and lowers his legs, though he doesn't remove the pillow from under his hips.

The order comes from the foot of the bed. Corvo has apparently not moved at all, not counting the moment where he gave Vaarûn the pillow, bur his voice is different. He can hear the waver in the Spymaster's tone, almost  _ feel _ the hunger in it. Now that he's not moaning his pleasure to the Void, he can actually listen to Corvo when he opens the chest at his feet and rummages around inside.

The bed shifts under Corvo's weight. Vaarûn wants to reach out, to touch him and grab him and claw at him, but doesn't. He just lies back while Corvo moves in close to his side. His wrists are grabbed and raised above his head. He doesn't try to move them while Corvo winds a rope around each and ties it securely in place.

Vaarûn smiles to himself. It's a silk rope, one whose shiny black color he remembers all too well. He watched Corvo braid it in the dead of night, with fantasies of doing exactly this with it. At the time, those thoughts had seemed so amusingly pointless.

Oh, how things have changed.

"Try to lower your arms."

He does and finds that he can't. The knots are well done, strong, but not uncomfortably tight and done in a way that can be easily undone. He feels up along the length of the rope and finds it looped through the small holes in the carved design of the headboard.

Corvo's calloused hand finds his side and drags along his ribs and waist. Rough palm and fingers scrape across his skin and make him shiver and moan. He can only imagine the look in the Spymaster's eyes.

"Were you serious about wanting me to... hurt you? About the bruises and the like?"

"Yes, Corvo,  _ yes _ ." He tries to wriggle into the man's touch. "There is next to nothing you can do that I wouldn't enjoy."

His hand is still feeling across Vaarûn's skin, idly roaming his front, and it's driving him mad with  _ want _ .

"You look so...  _ fragile _ like this."

Vaarûn laughs. "To be human  _ is _ to be fragile and hurt, Corvo." He arches his back to push his stomach into the man's hand. "So  _ make me feel human _ ."

There's an audible hitch in Corvo's breath that he  _ relishes _ . The hand on his belly stops.

"What's the safeword?"

He groans. "Corvo,  _ please _ , just-"

"The safeword."

Vaarûn lets out a sigh that is entirely too long and overdramatic. "Overseer. Now will you  _ please _ make me beg for mercy already?"

Corvo  _ finally _ gets moving. The bed shifts and bounces slightly and he feels his legs being maneuvered into place, until the Spymaster is between them and still moving the limbs around. He removes the pillow and scoots in close, deliciously so, until Vaarûn's hips are propped up by Corvo's bare thighs and he can only  _ imagine _ how close the man's hard length is to his own. He curses the blindfold covering his eyes, even tries using All Sight, but of course he can't see through his own closed eyelids.

The Spymaster's hands come to rest on his thighs. They hold him tight. And tighter. And tighter still, until his skin and flesh  _ ache _ in protest and he moans and squirms. He doesn't need his sight to know the pale skin blooms with crimson under the surface when the pressure releases, and Corvo doesn't stop there. That bruising grip travels up his torso haltingly, leaving paired handprints on either side of his hips, his waist, his ribs, even the underside of his arms.

When Corvo's hands close around the limbs he also leans down and kisses Vaarûn. He suddenly feels the man's arousal nestle between his buttcheeks and outright  _ groans _ into the kiss. He barely even pays attention to it, he's too caught in that shaft of heat pressed up against his rear, so close yet so frustratingly far from its mark. He grinds against it almost defiantly and is satisfied to hear a grunt of appreciation in response, even as Corvo's hands squeeze his arms mercilessly. When the flesh underneath is properly marked the pressure relents, but the Spymaster doesn't move. He stays where he is, lips locked with Vaarûn's,  _ torturing _ him with that volume pressed firmly against his rear.

Corvo only breaks the kiss when hestarts  to squirm too much to let it continue, but he stays close, sharing their heated breaths.

"Vaarûn..."

The former God  _ groans _ . "By the Void, just  _ fuck _ me already, Corvo!"

Even with the blindfold, he can just  _ see _ the smile that must form on the man's lips. The Spymaster finally sits up again. His hands glide down Vaarûn's front and grab the vial of oil on the way down. He hears the pop of the little cork and feels another wave of that maritime fragrance. There's a quiet noise from Corvo, like a moan he doesn't allow to fully form.

There's an oil-slicked touch against his entrance.

It's two of Corvo's fingers, which against the ring of muscle a few times before pushing inside. His digits are much thicker than Vaarûn's own, their texture is just wonderful,  _ especially _ with his heightened senses. He tries to grind into the touch, to draw Corvo deeper, but he barely has time to do any of it before the fingers are gone again.

The bed shifts slightly. The former God feels Corvo lean forward, props his weight on one of his arms. He's breathing hard.

There's another touch at Vaarûn's entrance.

Corvo slides into him easily, one smooth motion from tip to base that pushes all the air out of his lungs in a lengthy, throaty moan. "Oh, Void,  _ Corvo _ ," he whimpers, feeling the man's own pleasure thick in his breath, in the way there's just the slightest hint of a moan at the start of each exhale. Strong arms close around him. His mouth is caught in another kiss, sloppy with want and pleasure, that ends with an actual bite that draws blood; he can taste the iron right on the inside of his lower lip, where the cut won't be visible, won't be  _ known _ to anyone but the two of them.

"Vaarûn..."

The former God groans and digs his heels harder into Corvo's lower back. " _ Break _ me, Corvo," he says in a breathless rush. "Make me  _ regret _ letting you tie me up."

There's a strangled noise in Corvo's throat. "Your saf-"

"Overseer, it's overseer, just do it,  _ please _ ."

Vaarûn feels a breath against his lips, then a quick kiss. The Spymaster's hold shifts, his hands come up to wrap around his shoulders from behind, bruisingly tight. Corvo stays close, enough that they're sharing their breath, that their foreheads sometimes touch, as he draws his hips back agonizingly slow.

The former God grabs onto the rope binding his wrists and braces himself.

Corvo  _ rams _ forwards and there's a loud slap and Vaarûn  _ screams _ . He has all the delicacy of a charging blood ox, the entire bed rattles in its frame. It's brutal, and merciless, and just on the edge of painful, and Vaarûn  _ loves it _ . Corvo draws back and slams forward again, with all the strength that only those with Void-given power can muster. He settles into a deep, pounding rhythm that knocks the breath out of Vaarûn's lungs with each thrust and leaves him little time to draw it back in. The angle is perfect, just right to drive all that power directly into his prostate and make him scream himself hoarse, no room in his head for anything but the thick fog of pleasure-pain soaking every fiber of his being.

Time loses meaning. He realizes with a delay when his orgasm hits and his body tries to curl in on itself, but Corvo keeps going and he has little option but to let him. There's enough ferocity in the man's thrusts that it takes little to drive Vaarûn's overly sensitive body to the edge again. When he peaks a second time with a whimper rather than a scream, Corvo goes with him, spilling himself as deep as he possibly can.

Vaarûn's body feels boneless. He couldn't move even if he wanted to, and he  _ definitely _ doesn't want to.

After a short while Corvo reaches up to tug one of the knots on the rope free. It takes a few tries, but eventually the bind goes slack, only attached to one wrist. He pulls out, making Vaarûn whine, so he can bring the former God's arms down to his sides again.

"Everything alright?" Corvo asks in a tired voice. He just nods. He feels the man's fingers slip carefully under the blindfold. "I'm going to take this off."

He squeezes his eyes against the light in the room. It takes some blinking, but he acclimates quickly and finally gets to look at his new paramour in all his naked glory.

Corvo doesn't seem to mind the staring. He's just undoing the other knot on the rope, coiling and setting the thing aside, rubbing gently around Vaarûn's sore wrists and shoulders. His hair is a sweaty mess, but he has a peaceful smile on while he cares for his lover.

It's a smile Vaarûn has only ever seen from the Void, back in the days of Jessamine's rule.

Corvo gets out of bed and takes both rope and blindfold with him. Vaarûn stretches with a groan, feeling all the aches in his body flare up. He's sore in more places than one, but he finds himself enjoying it. The Spymaster returns with three things, one of which he brings carefully to Vaarûn's lips.

"Drink."

He sips the elixir. It's a small amount, enough to ease the deeper aches without dissipating the bruises. After the elixir comes a tall glass of water, which he gulps down in full. Then, Corvo just takes his time wiping the mess off his stomach.

He can't keep the lazy smile off his face. "Look at you. The mighty Corvo Attano, former Lord Protector and Spymaster, worshipping the Outsider so brazenly."

Corvo chuckles. "I never worshipped you."

"No. But you did so love to whisper my title into your Mark, for so many years, when you would pleasure yourself in private."

The lightest dusting of red spreads across the man's cheeks. He finishes wiping Vaarûn clean and moves off the bed again, to put everything away.

The lights go off.

The former God finds himself ensconced in both Corvo's arms and his bedsheets. The man's beard tickles at his nape.

"Did you feel anything, watching me like that?"

"In what limited way I could, yes. It was... flattering, I suppose, but ultimately just another vaguely amusing fact amidst the veritable flood you had provided me with over the years."

Corvo goes quiet. He pulls the other a little more snuggly against his front.

"Good night, Vaarûn."

"Good night, my dearest Corvo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats it folks, this is the end! i hope you enjoyed this meandering ride.
> 
> im currently planning a sequel and to make this into a two-part series, but im taking a break from it before continuing. a link to the next part will be added here when its posted.


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